The Two Darcys
by S. Faith
Summary: What if a certain history existed prior to Mark and Bridget finding one another?
1. Prologue

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>Summary<span>: What if a certain history existed prior to Mark and Bridget finding one another?  
><span>Disclaimer<span>: Not my characters. These are my words, though.  
><span>Notes<span>: Many thanks for everything to M.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue.<strong>

Spring was a beautiful time of year to be in Paris. He was glad to be there, glad for the break after an especially difficult year at Cambridge, but he couldn't help feeling guilty all the same for having taken the gift from his parents. They were by no means struggling financially, but after accepting their assistance for his schooling it felt excessive to accept this too, despite their insistence he go abroad on their dime, such as it was.

But, he told himself, he was here, Paris was absolutely breath-taking, and it would be a shame not to make the most of it.

In the first few days he did something he was not proud of, and by that, it meant playing utter tourist. He went to the Eiffel Tower; he had coffee and baguettes at a bistro on the bank of the Seine; he visited the Louvre and stood speechless before the world's most famed paintings. And the evenings, oh the evenings; the rambling strolls through the streets at night were much more pleasurable for the briskness, for the chill on his cheek.

It was during one of these strolls on the fourth evening, this time along the banks of the Seine with the moon full and hanging heavily in the sky, that he saw someone who looked very familiar to him. She stood at the railing, cap on head, blonde bobbed hair blowing madly around her face as she gazed down at the glittering peaks of moonlight on the briskly flowing river. It occurred to him why she looked familiar; he had seen her on his second day at the café, mangling the beautiful French language beyond all recognition in her request for a coffee and croissant. He had stepped in, placed her order for her, thereby saving her from further embarrassment (and further hunger pangs). They had chatted for a little bit—she was a student too, also on holiday—but further conversation was cut short because she had to catch up with the friends with whom she'd travelled.

"Not thinking of jumping in, are you?" he said, startling her visibly. She spun around to face him. When she saw who he was, saw he wasn't a total stranger, she visibly relaxed and smiled. "Your French isn't that bad."

"Hi." She brushed the fringe out of her eyes. "Fancy meeting you here."

He grinned. It seemed a rather extraordinary coincidence that he should meet her completely out of the blue twice in four days. "So if you aren't jumping, what brings you out strolling about on your own at night in a foreign city?"

"Same reason you are, I wager," she said with an equally bright grin. "Charms of the city are too much to resist. It's really magical and romantic."

At this his eyebrows rose quite against his will.

"Not that I'm out trolling for a man or anything," she added, which caused him to laugh.

"Looks like you found one all the same," he quipped. He was, as he had been in the café, immediately charmed by her, and felt a bit of an impulse overtake him. "Would you care for a coffee or a drink?"

She smiled at him, but then her brows drew together. "How do I know you're not a madman?"

"Good point," he said. "I suppose if I were, though, I might not have announced my presence so loudly."

"Well…" she said playfully, "you could just be a really lousy madman."

He chuckled, then came to stand closer to her, putting one hand on the railing. "I suppose I could be," he said, "but I promise I'm not."

She looked up at him with eyes that sparkled enough to rival the moonlit water. He hadn't noticed until then that he had some height on her, and that under the blunt cut fringe her eyes were beautiful. "You promise you're not a madman," she said, "or promise you're not lousy at it? Big difference."

Once more he chuckled, and he knew he did not want to spend another evening alone. In fact, he wanted to spend the evening talking to her, getting to know her better. "Please come have a drink with me."

After many moments of looking up into his eyes, she blinked, then nodded. "Okay," she said softly. After a charged moment, she added with more of a humorous tone, "But if you are a madman, you'd best make it worth my while."

He chuckled, trying not to hear her words with a double meaning; he had never been all that great gauging flirtation with strangers and usually erred on the side of caution. "Top shelf vodka, all the way."

"All right, then. Lead on."

As they began to walk, he had the oddest feeling that she kept looking up to him, but he didn't say anything to turn to look at her. He took her to a cosy little bar and ordered her drink for her when she began to fumble with the language again. They went to a corner table and didn't say a thing to one another until they had each taken a couple of sips of their respective cocktails. She spoke first, breaking the ice.

"So how did you know where this place was?"

"Been here before," he said. "I'm staying not too far from here."

"Mm," she said. "It's nice in this area of the city. Very posh."

"And where are you staying?"

"Not too far away, either," she admitted, "but not very posh."

He asked her what her name was and told her his in turn; it was an unusual, lovely name, and he told her frankly he'd had enough of 'Sarah' and 'Claire', which made her laugh.

"I'm not usually a vodka person," she confessed, having another sip. "This is very good, though."

"Told you," he said. "Top shelf. So… small talk. Right. What do you plan on doing the rest of your life?"

She laughed again. He thought she had one of the loveliest laughs he'd heard. "You first."

"Well… undergraduate work is coming to an end, so I have to start thinking beyond that," he said. "I'm rather using this time to _not_ think about it, to be honest. What about you?"

"Still in school, too," she said. "Uni, I mean."

The quickness with which she added the qualifier made him worry suddenly that she was too young for him to be buying her a drink. She saved him the trouble of asking how old she was by hinting she was halfway through her uni track, and therefore no more than two years his junior. It surprised him a little.

"I really don't want to talk about real life, though," she concluded. "I don't want to think about it. I'm here to have fun." The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smile.

This prompted him to ask, "Is this fun?"

"Mm, _quite_."

The tone in which she spoke suggested that her earlier comment had indeed been meant as flirtatious. He could not deny he found her attractive, and though it was not his usual way he was very, _very_ open to the idea of a holiday fling. The alcohol coursing in his veins probably helped him reach this conclusion.

"Would you like another?" he asked.

"I would _love_ another."

With the second drink she seemed to become further emboldened, reaching her hand out and placing it over his own. The feel of her nails grazing on the back of his hand, the engaging way she held his gaze over the edge of her glass… he was not mistaking the signs of her own attraction. Certainly, her leaning forward to brush her lips on his was a surer sign still, triggering his simultaneous lunge forward, lips on lips, mouth on mouth, for a kiss that was probably slightly indecent for a public place.

"Had a thought," he said in a gravelly tone.

"What's that?" Her question was breathy. Sexy.

"Come see how posh my digs are."

She smiled devilishly, then nodded.

They finished their drinks, left the bar hand in hand, leaving no one present with any illusions about what was to come next. His flat, rented for him for the two weeks he'd be there, was no more than five minutes away, but might as well have been two hours for the anticipation he felt in walking towards it.

They were barely into the door of the place when he pulled her roughly towards him, pulled her cap from her head and flung it aside, then fumbled to open the buttons of her jacket. He pushed it from her shoulders then brought her close to him again, relishing the feel of her knit shirt under his hands as he ran them along her waist, equally relishing her silky lips against his. He wanted to take her to bed and ravish her completely as soon as possible.

He took great delight in divesting her of her clothing and great pleasure in running the pads of his fingers over her velvety skin, in exploring all of her curves and bends, eliciting sounds of ecstasy and driving him to elicit them once again. She was responsive and not shy about not only her own wants and desires but in actively seeking to satisfy his. And satisfied they were, again and again; she had impressive stamina, pulling him back from the edge of slumber more than once to engage again.

The sky was just beginning to lighten with rosy pinks and blues when they felt the pull of sleep becoming inevitable. As he lost himself to a happy unconsciousness, he promised himself he wouldn't sleep too long because he wanted to treat her to breakfast, wanted to stroll the street with her in midday, have lunch, have dinner, and do it all over again if she were willing and they could procure more protection.

It wasn't yet eleven when they roused; she slipped from the bed (likely thinking he was still asleep) and made her way to the loo. He smiled sleepily as he turned over, awaiting her return. She came creeping back in and acted very modest when she realised he was awake.

"You have no need to be shy," he said, "even if we hadn't just spent the night together."

At this she turned pink all over. "I don't usually do this sort of thing," she admitted, perching on the side of the bed like a timid bird, shielding her breasts from his view with crossed arms.

"That makes two of us," he said with a placid smile. He fought the desire he was feeling as he gazed at her lovely form, and cleared his throat. "I had a thought for today, something that could make this more than the sort of thing we don't usually do." She chuckled. "Maybe you and I could have breakfast, have a walk… take it from there."

She smiled shyly, as if pleasantly surprised that he was still interested in her beyond sleeping with her. "I'd like that." Her smile broadened. "I'm glad, you know."

"Glad for what?"

"That you're not a madman," she said. "Quite the opposite."

The day went quite as he hoped, as did the night; he had a lot of fun in her company, laughed a lot, smiled a lot. She just had a way about her that made laughing, smiling, having fun that much easier to do; unspoken was the agreement that they say nothing that revealed too much about themselves or their lives outside of Paris, not even their surnames. This was the only reality that mattered. They had dinner together, then returned to his flat for a nightcap; it was only a matter of time before they were in the bedroom, kissing, fondling, groping, making ardent love as if it might be the last chance they would ever have.

As he would come to discover, it would be.

He dozed off in his post-coital bliss and when he woke again, the flat was dark and he was alone. Puzzled, he sat upright in the bed, looking around, listening for sounds of water running in the loo, of her footsteps on the floor, but the only thing he could hear was the distant sounds of a city alive at night. He pushed aside the sheets and rose, systematically padding through the flat until it became quite obvious she had gone.

On the table on which they'd had their after-dinner drinks he did find a note.

_Sorry, sorry. Had to leave. Forgot flight back home is in the morning and have yet to pack. Thanks for a nice send-off. xx_

He cursed silently to himself as he crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it randomly aside. He didn't know quite why he felt as wronged as he did; it wasn't like it was meant to be anything more than a bit of fun and frivolity.

As he thought about it further, he realised he might have felt better knowing her whole name, of having some way to find her again, because he liked her as more than just a two-night stand, thought he might have liked to know even more about her. _No matter_, he thought; _She could have left a name, a number, if she'd wanted to hear from me again._

Best to have had what they'd had, then move on.

…

He hadn't thought of her in years and years. It was when he heard that his brother was getting married that the memory of her sparked, because his brother's new fiancée shared a name with that girl from so many years ago. He smiled with that memory of his two nights and a day with her; it really had been one of the highlights of that holiday. She had helped him to really relax and be more impulsive while there, which got it out of his system for his return to England and to his new-born professional life.

Though it was not a common name, he knew it was not unique by any stretch, so he didn't give much more thought to it as he mentally prepared to meet the mysterious woman who had won his brother's heart.

Perhaps he ought to have.


	2. Chapter 1

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>SummaryDisclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1.<strong>

"He'll be here when, exactly?" asked Bridget as she smoothed down the front of her shirt, frowning at her own reflection; from a certain angle she swore her stomach looked rounder, almost like she was pregnant. Otherwise she was pleased with her outfit—demure floral blouse, flared pencil skirt (one of the only skirts she had that actually went below her knees)—and her upswept hair, a very posh-feeling chignon. She pushed down on her tummy, though, willing it to spontaneously flatten.

She heard a chuckle, then a murmured, "You look fine." She looked over her reflection's shoulder to see him, the man she loved, smiling fondly at her. "He said he'd be here forty-five minutes ago. Can't imagine what's keeping him."

"Traffic, probably." She then turned to look directly at him, worry finding her features. "Mark, what if he and his girlfriend don't like me?"

"They will," he assured. "And it's fiancée. They're engaged."

"Like us," she added quickly.

He smiled again. "Yes, darling," he said patiently. "Like us."

She often could not believe her good fortune, having this man in her life, a man who would soon enough be her husband; it all felt so unreal. She felt like the luckiest woman in the whole world. "You're sure I look all right, though?"

"You look wonderful. Now stop fretting."

She suddenly forgot the fiancée's name. "What's she called again?"

He paused, clearing his throat. "Chloë."

"Chloë. Right." She took in a steadying breath, then blew the air out forcefully. She was nervous; there was no ignoring it. "Maybe if I just… have a little walk in the garden, in the shade. I mean, I don't need to be present and at attention at the door when they arrive, do I?"

He smiled. "I don't imagine you do." He stepped forward, took her hands and pulled her close to him. "Wonderful. Stop fretting." Then he kissed her.

She felt a bit sheepish. "I won't be long. I promise."

With the parting look he gave to her, Bridget was suddenly sure he suspected she was going out to have a smoke; she hadn't planned on it but now that it had occurred to her, she took a short detour to grab her handbag, which contained her Silk Cut and lighter.

She loved the gardens around the Darcy estate; everything seemed so much greener and lusher than even in her own parents' garden. She walked to one of her favourite places, a manicured hedge parallel to a low stone wall and with a beautiful vista of the English countryside, and where the wall turned a corner sat the bust of a woman covered in bright yellow and vibrant green lichen. Bridget took in a deep breath to calm herself, then exhaled slowly as she took in the view before reaching into her handbag.

"Hello."

She looked up, so startled by the unfamiliar voice that she dropped her purse, spilling its contents. Then she furrowed her brow.

This must have been Mark's brother; the dark hair and distinctive jawline gave that away. Even still, he seemed very familiar to her, but was it because she'd met him before when she was much younger and just didn't remember? He seemed to be equally caught in his own thoughts, as if he were trying to place her, too. After a few moments he blinked rapidly and his face went slightly pale. "Bridget?"

She nodded a little to acknowledge he was correct, but at the same time something about the way he said her name rang distant bells to her, as well. "Do I—"

She stopped short. She did know him, and she felt the pit of her stomach drop down:

Paris, on break from university with her friends almost a decade and a half ago; this was the tall, handsome Peter who had taken her for drinks (and then some) before a hasty, nearly forgotten departure back to Bangor. She brought her hands to her mouth.

"Oh my God," she said, her voice quite having escaped her.

He seemed equally discombobulated, though recovered himself much more quickly than she had and offered her a smile. "Of all the Bridgets in all the world, you turn out to be Mark's," he said. "This is unbelievable."

Unbelievable did not begin to describe it. What would Mark say when he learned she'd had a fling with his younger brother? What would Peter's own fiancée say?

"Where's Chloë?" she blurted.

"We… split up."

"Oh," said Bridget. "I'm sorry."

He didn't respond, said only, "You look great. Mark's a lucky man."

She had to admit he looked pretty great too, and offered a smile in return; he didn't seem inclined to want to create drama, and he was practically going to be family. She would have to be straightforward with Mark. Surely he'd understand.

"Never thought I'd see you again," she admitted.

"We never really intended anything long-term," he said, "though I would have preferred to say goodbye."

"Sorry," she said. "I was in total panic mode about leaving. Morning after notes are not usually my style."

"Not the sort of thing we do," he said.

For some reason it made her laugh. "Don't mind me," she joked. "I'm just feeling a bit hysterical."

He looked worried, then sighed. "I won't say a thing to him, I swear."

She knew what he meant—that he wouldn't tell his brother about their time together all those years ago—but she shook her head. "I couldn't keep a secret like that from him," she said quietly. "He deserves to know the truth."

"He probably won't take it well."

She laughed mirthlessly, then grinned crookedly. "I know." After an awkward pause, she said honestly, "It is good to see you again."

He nodded, smiling back at her. "It's _great_ to see you again."

In a flash they were hugging like they were long-lost friends, and she thought, despite the surprise and shock, that they might just be able to make this work, being brother- and sister-in-law.

He still smelled just as nice as she remembered, though.

…

Mark was starting to get a bit worried. Not only had his brother not shown up yet, but now Bridget had gone out and had been gone for much longer than just smoking a single cigarette should have taken. He should have kept her from doing it, but he knew despite her best intentions of quitting, old habits die hard.

With a high degree of certainty he knew exactly where she'd gone: her favourite spot in the garden with the stone bust she'd nicknamed Medusa. He'd just go find her and wait with her.

As he got closer to that spot, he could hear indistinct voices; he recognised them both and knew that his brother had arrived via the garden and had encountered Bridget. As he approached, their voices went quiet. As he came through the break in the hedge, he saw the pair of them embracing. Bridget was smiling; her eyes were closed.

It was then that Peter spotted him, and in reflex he released Bridget abruptly and stepped away. "Hey, Mark." Bridget turned too and he swore she blushed.

It was not the hug that bothered Mark; after all, she was friendly and Peter was to be her brother-in-law. No, Peter had reacted as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Bridget's blush suggested she felt the same way. It bothered him because he didn't know what it could possibly mean.

"I see you've met, then," Mark said in an even tone. Bridget came over to his side, and as he usually did he linked his arm around her waist. She seemed unusually tense, which surprised him, too.

"Yes," said Peter. "We have."

"You came alone?" Mark asked.

"They apparently split up," Bridget cut in. He looked to her to see her earnest expression. "Mark, we really need to talk."

Mark went from slightly confused and perplexed to downright alarmed. "Of course."

Peter spoke up. "I'll give you some privacy."

The way he said it made Mark suspect Peter already knew what their talk was to be about… and that it somehow involved his brother, whom Bridget had ostensibly only met for the first time a few minutes ago. Mark said nothing and did not insist that Peter stay.

Once he was gone, Mark turned his gaze back to Bridget. "So let's have it," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she said. "I'm just afraid you'll be cross."

"Why should I be cross?" he asked, feeling his temper rise at her hemming and hawing.

"When I was mid-way through uni," she said, "I took a trip to Paris with my friends. I… met a really nice guy there and we had some fun together."

"What does this have to do with my—"

Mark stopped short, felt his blood chill as he remembered Peter speaking enthusiastically about a girl he had met and with whom he had a brief fling while visiting Paris some years ago, just as he was finishing up pre-med at Cambridge—

"Are you saying you slept with my brother?" he asked brusquely.

She furrowed her brow. "You make it sound like I just did it a few minutes ago."

"So you did sleep with him?"

"It was a long time ago—" At his assuredly stern look, she said, "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know he was your _brother_, Mark," she said. "If I had, do you really think I would have hidden that from you?"

"We don't have that common a surname."

She tensed her jaw and pursed her lips, telling him without words they had never exchanged that information. For some reason this set his temper off again:

"So did you frequently sleep with men without even asking for their names?"

At this her mouth hung open in shock. "That was uncalled for," she said darkly. "I did not ask for a CV of your conquests, Mark Darcy; I hardly think you have the right to ask me for mine. Do you think I'm not surprised, that this won't be as awkward as arse?" Her lower lip was quivering. "I don't think I want to be around you right now."

He pinched his forefinger and thumb into the corner of his eyes. "That _was_ uncalled for, and I'm sorry," he said after a few moments, then looked to her again. She looked devastated; he felt terrible, but how else could he have reacted? What else had she expected? "Truly. I just… this is very…" He didn't have the word to adequately describe his emotional state.

She sighed deeply. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry, too. If I could change things, I would. This must be so odd for you."

"'Odd' is a bit of an understatement," he said, particularly as he could not quiet his mind regarding other, more colourful comments Peter had made about the girl on that trip.

"Your expression says it all," she said. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking…" he began in a quiet tone, "…of the exquisite detail with which he described the girl in Paris and how he wished he'd thought to get her number."

"Ohhh." At this she lunged forward and took him in her arms, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Mark," she said soothingly. "It's you that I love. I just hope this won't make things rough between you and your brother."

He hoped the same. There was no indication that Peter had been pining for The Girl From Paris all this time, had even been planning to marry another… but Mark also had kept in very appallingly poor touch with his only brother, so it was not as if they were confidantes. He turned his head and placed a kiss just over her ear. The way she pulled back and smiled at him tenderly told him he hadn't needed to say a thing; she knew how he felt.

They returned to the house, he with his arm around her shoulders and she with her arm linked around his waist. Peter was waiting just inside the door, looking for all the world like an expectant father hoping for word of a healthy child and not the feared-for spawn of Satan.

"Everything's okay," said Bridget with a smile.

"Really?" Peter asked hesitantly.

"Yes," said Mark, though the confidence in his voice was not an accurate reflection of how he actually felt. He would take her word as gold, and trust his brother as he always had. "Probably best not to make it a topic of conversation over lunch, though."

At this Peter chuckled and relaxed visibly and with that the three of them went further into the house and to where Elaine and Malcolm Darcy were waiting with a spread for lunch.

"There you are!" said Elaine, clapping her hands in delight. "To have my boys together after so long…" She furrowed her brows. "Wait, where's—"

Peter interrupted: "Later, Mum."

Elaine pursed her lips, displeased momentarily to be brushed off in such a way.

"I'll have a hug for now."

Her joy at her son being home could not long be repressed, and she grinned broadly as she gave him a big hug. She then looked to Bridget. "And what do you think of your future brother-in-law?"

Mark looked to her in time to see the colour pale from her skin. "He seems… very nice," she offered, forcing a smile. When she looked to Mark, the smile eased into a more natural one.

"Of course you've met Peter before, my dear."

At this Bridget went paler still. "Um…"

"When you were four, of course, and you met Mark at his birthday party," Elaine went on. "Peter was there too; he was six. You played together in the paddling pool."

At this the colour returned to her face and then some. "Oh."

"My God," said Peter, his own face pale with an obvious dawning realisation. "_You_ were the little blonde girl who couldn't keep her clothes on?"

"Oh, let's stop embarrassing the poor girl," said Malcolm. "Come and let's have lunch."

…

Bridget was certain that Peter's extemporaneous expression of recognition was not given a thought at all before it passed through his lips, but it caused her to feel mortification down to her toes. During the course of the lunch she began to feel more like herself, and she found herself in very spirited conversation with all of the Darcys, but especially Peter.

Unfortunately, however, there was very little conversation with her own fiancé. Mark was stiff in posture, exuded discomfort, and acted extraordinarily distant.

After they'd each taken a serving, Bridget felt the pressure to spur conversation, as she and Peter knew each other the least (even given their dalliance in Paris). The most natural think she could think to ask was, "So what do you do, Peter?"

"Been practising medicine for about a decade," he replied.

She had some vague recollection of his mentioning anatomy classes but hadn't the faintest what his chosen field might turn out to be. "Oh, wow," she said, then added, feeling a bit like her mother as she did so, "a barrister and a doctor for sons! Every mum's dream come true, I'm sure."

"They always have made us proud," said Malcolm with a bit of bluster.

"Though I am disappointed," said Elaine. "I was so looking forward to meeting your Chloë."

Bridget had been dying of curiosity but had not dared to ask; only a mother could ask such a question and not risk a verbal lashing. "It didn't work out," said Peter simply.

Elaine made a clucking sound. "Such a shame," she said. "We'd heard so much about her."

"Sometimes things just aren't meant to be," said Bridget tenderly, offering a smile, and as she said it she realised its double meaning. Peter seemed to take it in the spirit in which it was offered and nodded. "Has it been broken off long?"

"About a month," Peter replied. "About the time it took be to get back to England."

"That must have been hard."

Peter nodded. "I'll be all right, really."

"Of course you will," she said with a decisive nod. "After all, you can't be expected to spend the rest of your days sulking through the streets of London looking like a whipped puppy."

At this Peter laughed; she hadn't thought it possible but with that comment Mark seemed to grow more sullen and brooding with each passing moment. This didn't bode well for… well, for anything. Not for the rest of the night, not for the rest of their lives.

She took it upon herself to try to make him smile. "You can't say you don't agree, Mark," she said. "You had to take your sulk as far as Thailand at least." She slipped her hand over his and smiled lovingly up at him; she watched as a reluctant smile found his lips in return. She suspected they could speak more in detail later; she looked forward to it if for no other reason than to put him at ease that nothing had changed. Sensing he needed a bit more reassurance in the present moment, she leaned forward and placed a little kiss on his chin. She swore he blushed a little, which made her giggle.

Mission accomplished.

…

Even though Peter did not fully understand her jest about Thailand, it had done what she had intended it to do; it was a sweet scene to see Bridget lean forward and placed her lips tenderly on Mark's chin. He knew his brother, knew that he was not a big fan of public displays of affection, and while Mark quite distinctly tinted at her action, he also quite plainly enjoyed it.

Conversation had started out a bit stilted during lunch; she seemed to be carefully choosing her words, because obviously she couldn't be too specific in her questions or responses as she wasn't really supposed to have known that much about him as an adult. He knew Mark's behaviours well, knew that his reluctance to participate spoke of frustration and perhaps a bit of jealousy, because it must have been obvious to Mark that Peter had quite a bit of chemistry with Bridget.

Peter had opportunity to observe them a little more as he, Mark and Bridget moved to the sitting room with after-luncheon coffee and cake; his parents were there too but seemed content to remain mostly observers. She leaned into Mark's embrace as they sat on the sofa then continued their conversation as if it hadn't stopped. "So where were you? I mean, that you had to return to England."

Peter could only think, as he had earlier, of that final vicious, poisonous row that had been the end of their relationship and that had precipitated his homecoming. "Kowloon," he said, then elaborated, "Hong Kong."

"Oh, that must have been _very_ exciting," she said, her eyes lighting with that same fervour he'd seen in Paris. "I mean," she said, backtracking a little, "I hope the bad memories of the place are quickly overshadowed by the good."

Her own earlier mention of Thailand prompted Peter to reflect on the conversation and ask about it. "Mark saved me," she said plainly. "I had managed to get myself into heaps of trouble—through no fault of my own, mind you—and he saved me from living out the rest of my life in a Thai prison."

"No fault of your own," echoed Mark with a smirk. "Your dotty friend and her questionable taste in men."

"It was an ugly enough present," she said, "but there's no way I could have known it was stuffed with drugs."

Peter nearly spit out his coffee in surprise. "What?"

She explained that her friend Sharon had met a man in Thailand, someone who'd seemed nice, someone who'd really liked her friend in return, and as a token of affection—"_Supposed_ affection," Bridget stressed—he had given her a horrible bowl with a preserved snake on it. "And here it was stuffed with cocaine the whole time," she said, "and all Shaz was meant to be was a drug mule. Broke her bloody heart, it did."

"So if it was for your friend," asked Peter, "how come you were the one to end up in jail?"

Her mouth formed a crooked line. "I had room in my suitcase and she didn't."

Mark tightened the arm that rested around Bridget's shoulders, pressed his nose into her hair as he kissed her on the crown of the head. He drew back but his eyes were still closed as he said quietly, "I helped to bring her home."

"'Helped', nothing," she said. "You orchestrated the whole thing."

"And thank goodness he did," said his mother. "They'd split up for the silliest reasons—"

"Split up?" asked Peter, regretting it immediately.

"Yeah," said Bridget sheepishly. "Horrible misunderstandings all around. I have learnt my lesson well."

"As have I," said Mark.

_Sometimes things just aren't meant to be_, Bridget had said before; truer words were never spoken, and though she had meant his relationship with Chloë, she could have just as easily been speaking of their own very brief time together. As conversation moved on, Peter observed his brother relax and fall into what had clearly become habit: brushing his fingers along her shoulders, turning and placing a kiss into her hair when she leaned in to him. It drove home how much Mark must have loved her, because no man changed his lifelong beliefs and habits for nothing. It also brought up in Peter feelings of regret and even guilt; if he had insisted upon her phone number all those years ago, might he now be the one in his brother's place?

They spent a nice afternoon then well into the evening after an excellent dinner; most of this Peter spent in his reverie while observing his brother and Bridget. It was only when she said something puzzling to Mark that Peter snapped out of it:

"Mum's expecting me home, don't forget."

Peter furrowed his brows, questioning without words.

"Mrs Jones doesn't think it's proper that she stay here," explained Mark.

Peter covered his hand with his mouth to suppress his laugh. To his surprise and delight, Mark grinned.

…

As much as he had delayed bringing her over to her parents' house as long as possible, Mark was actually rather relieved that Bridget would not be staying the night with the day's revelation. She said her goodbyes to his parents and his brother, then turned to Mark with a smile and took his hand. He had to admit her smile had not lost its charm on him at all.

They had arrived the previous night, Friday, and she'd stayed with her parents then, too until he'd come for her just before lunch. "You probably could have just borrowed your dad's car for today," teased Mark as they approached his car; he opened the door for her.

"I know," she said, pausing with her hand on the top of the open door, "but then I couldn't have the time with you whilst you bring me back."

"True," he said, "but ten more minutes hardly makes a difference."

She smirked. "You say that now."

He had no idea what she might have meant until he felt her hand on his thigh. "Mark," she said. "You know that little turn off just up to the left here?" Her nails raked on his knee. "Mind if we pause and enjoy the night sky for a bit?"

He chuckled, her meaning now crystal clear, then flipped on his indicator to turn off into the grove. There wasn't much visibility beyond the trees to see the stars and the moon, but he didn't expect she had interest in that at all.

He had barely switched off the ignition and the lights when she leapt out of the car. "Come on," she said. "Come outside. Beautiful night."

If she meant to have a bit of a snog in the car, she was on the wrong side of the car to do it; he opened his door and rose. His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness but he could see she was her standing with her palms down on the edge of the bonnet. She laughed at his undoubtedly confused expression.

"Bridget, what are you—"

"Come here and you'll see," she said.

As he rounded the front of the car, she turned then hopped up on the edge. She grabbed his hand when he was close enough to her then pulled him closer still and placed his hand over her breast. "Kiss me," she breathed.

He could hardly fail to oblige her, and his kiss was greedier than even he had expected. The still of the night, the chill of the air, the sound of the crickets singing, the fact that they hadn't had time alone together since much earlier that week….

Neither could he refuse her demands to lift her skirt or open her shirt. Pressing her against the silver sheen of his car, he kissed her lips, her throat, her collarbone, the downy skin between her breasts; undoing her bra, he brought the hardened tip to his mouth and grazed it with his teeth with increasing pressure until she cried out, and only then did he comply with her wishes and allow her access to his trouser fly. He groaned as she did, groaned louder as he drove up hard into her again and again, finding his release quickly.

He held her close with one arm around her waist; the other hand found its way under her skirt, renewing the strength in her own cry until she pressed her face against his shoulder and moaned simultaneous to her climax. He found her mouth again, kissed her ardently and perhaps a bit too roughly, but he couldn't help himself.

"I love you," he said between kisses, his voice trembling.

"Mark," she gasped; her fingers played gently on his cheek. "I love you, too. God, do I love you."

They embraced a few minutes more, their passion cooling as they kissed again, before he stepped back and drew her skirt back down over her knees. He regarded her in her slight repose on the car in the moonlight; she returned the smile he was giving to her.

She got to her feet just as he restored his trousers to a semblance of decency; he approached her and combed her hair back and over her ears, smoothing it down.

"Will I pass the mum test?" she asked earnestly.

He chuckled. "If she's completely oblivious to evidence of your being utterly ravished, then yes," he murmured, giving her one last, small kiss before backing away. "Come now, before they worry."

"My dad doesn't care at all if I were to stay."

"I think he does," Mark said.

She sighed. "Can't wait 'til the wedding," she said with a pout. "Then I can stay with you properly when we visit."

As they resumed the journey back to the Jones residence, he fell into a sort of reverie. It was moments like these—utterly spontaneous, completely unplanned, and very, very thrilling—that made him so look forward to his life with her. Despite how different they could be, how polar opposite they were at times, she really did make him feel more complete than he ever had. He thought of how empty his life had been before her, how he never wanted her not to be in it again.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked playfully just as he rounded the corner and her parents' house came into sight.

"Yin and yang," he said.

This made her laugh. "What?"

"Come now, you know what that is."

"Well, yes, but… why that of all things?"

He stopped in front of the house, the car idling as he turned to her. "Without you I'm not whole, Bridget."

This apparently shocked her into silence and caused tears to spring into her eyes. "Oh, Mark," she said, then launched forward to embrace him.

"Didn't mean to make you cry," he said, kissing her cheek.

"You keep right on making me cry," she said, "if it means you keep saying things that make me feel like the luckiest woman in all the world."

They said their goodnights before she pulled herself away and went up into the house. He waited for the front light to go off and on again, signalling she'd made it safely in, before putting the car into gear and heading back towards the Darcy homestead.

Mark went into the sitting room intending on having a nightcap before retiring for the evening. He expected to see his parents there, but instead found Peter with a drink of his own, standing and gazing out of the window. He turned at his brother's approach.

"They decided to retire early," Peter explained before he even had the opportunity to ask the question. He indicated the bar on which the liquor sat, which was closer in proximity to him than to Mark. "Shall I pour you a scotch?"

"Thank you, yes," said Mark, having a seat upon the sofa. He knew they probably needed to talk about the bombshell that had exploded that day, and sooner was better than later. He was considering how to begin the conversation when Peter handed him the tumbler of scotch and sat beside him.

"So… never thought this conversation was one you and I would need to have."

The humour in the tone of Peter's words unexpectedly tripped a pressure release that caused Mark to laugh low in his throat. His brother was all too correct; they had never once come close to having interest in the same woman. "I know." He took a sip of the scotch, then stared into the glass.

"Everything is all right, though, isn't it?" Peter asked.

Mark looked up at him, at his earnest blue eyes—their one point of difference for colouring thanks to a genetics crapshoot—and didn't quite know what to say.

"Whatever we might have had," Peter continued in a low tone, "that was long in the past. She obviously is mad about you, Mark, and I would not dream of interfering." Peter paused, drawing his brows together. "Does it bother you to think we slept together?"

"It does," Mark said abruptly, sharply, then blew air sharply through clenched teeth. "I know it shouldn't, because God knows neither or us were virgin pure when we started seeing each other, but it does."

Peter nodded in understanding. "We were both so young, there were no strings attached…"

"That isn't what I remember you saying at the time," said Mark. "You expressed great regret for allowing her to leave with no way of finding her again."

"I was practically a _child_," Peter said dismissively. "I had nothing to compare it to, not like I do now. We had a couple of days of light-hearted fun. What you have is far beyond a school break fling. You have commitment, trust and devotion. You have love."

Mark let out a long, slow breath. He was sure that his brother was sincere in his protestations, but it was hard to argue with an accursedly good memory; if his brother had not returned in love with the mystery girl, he was at least smitten to the core. It had been no forgettable dalliance to him, regardless of his expressed opinion now. All of this flitted through his mind in the space of a second; Mark was careful to not let any of this doubt show in his features or in his voice. "I know you're right," Mark said.

"I know I'm right, too," said Peter, his voice lighter, his smile speaking of the relief he felt. "I'm always right."

This made Mark chuckle and think of their boyhood days, when Mark would declare in his youthful arrogance that he was always right, and Peter would mimic his words and his haughty tone in order to make him see how ridiculous he sounded. It hadn't always worked, but now as adults it served to make Mark laugh.

Peter reached forward and patted his brother genially on the shoulder. "Let's have a toast, Mark," he said, getting to his feet and grabbing the bottle of scotch and splashing in a respectable amount of the amber liquid. "To Mark and Bridget, a long and happy life together."

As he clinked glasses with Peter's he found himself asking Peter to be his best man; he had not yet asked anyone and who else but his brother should stand at his side?

…

The question blindsided Peter, in all honesty. Mark was getting married before the year's end and hadn't yet secured a best man? "Of course," he said automatically; there was no way he could refuse the request even if he'd wanted to, but it did complicate things a little for him. Despite his assurances to his brother, Peter could not honestly say the ember of that old flame had actually been fully quashed; seeing her again, having her in his arms for that brief hug, had stirred up more than he liked to admit, reminded him of the instant attraction they'd had, one which had not, to his lament, diminished all that much from his perspective.

"Marvellous," said Mark with a smile, as he raised his glass to his lips and took a long drink. At least Mark could not see into his thoughts; as long as his brother thought all was well, all would be well, because he would never act on his attraction, and would work to remind himself that she was engaged to his brother, someone he could never betray.

In mid-sip, however, Mark's brows drew closer and he brought the tumbler away. "I'm a fool," he said sadly, sending Peter's adrenalin spiking, at least until Mark continued: "Here I am going on about my own wedding when you've split with your own fiancée. I'm very sorry, Peter."

"It was inevitable, I suppose," said Peter; he had seen the end coming, so when it actually had come he'd felt a certain sense of relief. His mother, unaware of the prior disagreements and the tension, seemed to be more affected by the breakup than he had, when he'd finally told her details after Mark had taken Bridget to her parents'.

Mark would prove to react similarly. "You are taking it awfully well," said Mark.

He shrugged a little, then explained what he had just been pondering, so as not to sound too crass. "Suffice it to say," he concluded, "it didn't come as much of a shock."

"Still, I'm sorry," he said. "There's almost always quite a bit to deal with outside of actually splitting up." Peter knew all too well his brother's experience with not just a breakup, but divorce. "And on top of it all, moving from Hong Kong back to London instead of just visiting… no easy feat, especially at short notice."

"Not inexpensive, that's for sure," Peter said, "but it was easier to just leave most of it behind. Easier to make a clean break. But, you know, I'm quite happy to be back in the UK. I'd missed being near to family very much."

"We've missed you too," said Mark, though it seemed to him his voice was a bit distant. Peter wondered if he too was considering the possibility that if Bridget might have met Peter sooner than she had, if Peter hadn't been living abroad… things might have gone much differently.

"Well," said Peter in a bright tone, hoping to dissipate the pall that had fallen over the room. "Better head off to bed. See you for breakfast."

"Right," said Mark. After rising to his feet, he said, "I'm glad you're home, Peter," then clapped his brother on the shoulder as he passed by then went out of the room.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>SummaryDisclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2.<strong>

It was a beautiful morning, one of the best mornings she could recall in recent memory. The sun was shining, the sky was the perfect shade of cerulean, and both of her sons were under her roof at the same time, something that had not been achieved in many a year. She was in commemoration whipping together their favourite boyhood breakfast, the biggest British fry-up she'd made in some time.

Before too long her husband was in the kitchen sniffing about like a starving puppy. "What's all this, then?" he asked, looking delighted.

"We're making a bit of an exception this morning, Malcolm, since the boys are home," she said. "Your doctor would have a royal conniption if he knew."

"Secret's safe with me, my dear Elaine," Malcolm said, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek. He moved then to pour himself some coffee. "Ah, shall I put on some more?"

"You better had," she said. "Mark's gone for Bridget."

"Enough said," he said, chuckling. He fetched the coffee beans and, just as she'd shown him, he measured out the right amount for a full pot, then ground them up and got the coffee maker all set up. Within a few minutes the scent of fresh coffee filled the kitchen.

The delectably penetrating smell had definitely gotten the remaining son's attention; within a few minutes Peter appeared in the kitchen with a hopeful expression. "Oh, _Mum_," he said as soon as he saw that coffee was not the only offering. "Hong Kong breakfasts were decent enough, but nothing beats a proper fried British breakfast."

"Especially your mother's," said Malcolm with a wink.

"That goes without saying." Peter poured coffee for himself. "Where's Mark?"

"Went for Bridget," said Malcolm.

"So what's a Hong Kong breakfast?" she asked, stirring the contents of the pan.

"Milk tea, toast, ham, fried eggs with peas, soup with noodles and more ham," Peter said in a rote fashion, like he'd been asked the question one too many times. "So she'll be here for breakfast, then?"

"Do you mean Bridget? I imagine she'll eat," said Elaine. "She's not exactly an early bird. Suspect Mark's taken so long because she's getting dressed and getting her things together. She'll hardly have time for food before they come back."

Peter stirred his coffee, and when she looked back to her son he seemed quite pensive. "Ah, I suppose," he said at last.

It was a curious response. Elaine pressed: "You do like her, don't you? You're not just being polite?"

"Yes, of course I do," Peter said.

Elaine went on; it seemed he was not yet convinced. "She's a bit unconventional, especially for your brother, but they really are very well suited for one another."

"I don't doubt it," said Peter. "Really, Mum, I like her very much. I mean, for knowing her for… one day."

Elaine smiled. She wanted nothing more than for her son and his future sister-in-law to get on like old friends. "Very glad to hear," she said. "Truly. Though I wish I'd gotten to…" She paused; it was not good to dwell on his broken engagement. "Well, enough on that." With a final stir, she turned the heat off on the hob, then set the pan aside. "Toast?"

"Of course." Peter sounded more like himself as he said it; just then she heard the door, heard footsteps; it must have been the return of Mark with Bridget. This was confirmed in very short order when she heard Bridget's distinctive voice:

"Oh, it smells wonderful in here!"

Bridget rounded the kitchen door, offering a smile as she came in.

"Thank you, dear," said Elaine. "Bit of a special occasion, having us all together like the family we are."

Bridget smiled as Mark put his arm around her shoulders. "Indeed," Mark said quietly.

"All's well this morning, I hope?" Elaine asked, putting another round of bread under the toaster.

"Of course," said Bridget. It seemed she might be about to take the seat beside Peter, but Mark pulled out the chair next to that for her, then, after pushing her forward, turned to get them some coffee.

"Of course," echoed Mark after a moment, stirring sugar into one, then pouring in some cream. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason," said Elaine, though she was getting the strangest feeling that something was in fact a bit off. She turned back to her pan of food. "It'll just be a moment more and I'll have your plates to the table." Elaine reached for plates, five in all, then, after placing the toast in the toast rack, she brought that to the table.

"Shall I help?" asked Bridget.

"All under control," said Elaine, turning to her pan again. A few minutes more and the plates were ready. She brought the first three plates to the table, setting one in front of each of the young people; Mark had taken the chair between Bridget and his brother. "Here you are."

"Oh, magnificent," said Peter, taking his fork in hand. "You have outdone yourself, Mum."

As she served her husband then took her own seat, Elaine was pleased to see the three of them all partaking enthusiastically of breakfast. Bridget prefaced every other bite with the likes of "I really shouldn't eat this" alternating with "Best breakfast I've ever had," which only made Elaine smile. She had no idea why the girl was so insecure about her weight. It was, as best as Elaine could tell, just right for her, and Mark sure seemed to approve of it too.

"Oh, I remembered while I was whisking the eggs," said Elaine partway into the meal, "that it's the rummage sale for the Rotary this afternoon. I thought we might all go, visit with your mum and dad, Bridget, before you head back to town."

Elaine hadn't expected wild enthusiasm, but neither had she expected such a resounding silence from the three of them, not even any sounds of silverware against the plates.

"I take that to be a 'no'," said Malcolm wryly.

"No! I mean yes. I mean… that sounds fun," said Bridget with a smile, nodding a little. She turned to Mark. "Doesn't it?"

"Sure," said Mark. "It'll be nice to spend time outside, all of us and your parents, Bridget." From Elaine's perspective, there was a distinct lack of sincerity in his voice, which puzzled her. He always liked to show support for the Rotary events. She couldn't imagine what the matter could be.

"Think of the bins of twenty year old clothes," said Peter. "Surely they'll all be in style again."

At this Bridget laughed out loud and said, "Oh, don't say that like it's a bad thing. I sure could use more pairs of leg warmers, after all."

Peter laughed. "Perhaps there'll be a Walkman cassette player in the offing…"

"We'd love to come, make a day of it," Mark said decisively, sounding more like the son she knew. "Pam will love meeting Peter again."

Bridget added, "She'll undoubtedly lament the fact that she doesn't have another daughter—" Unexpectedly and abruptly, Bridget stopped talking and flushed red. Elaine thought it most bizarre. "Well, you know my mum," she went on. "She loves making matches."

"Yes, and she _would_ keep it all in the family if she could," Elaine said with a smile. As she said this Peter began to cough on his coffee. "Are you all right?"

Peter nodded. "Just went down the wrong way," he said in a tight voice as he coughed. "I'll be fine."

With that they each ate their breakfasts with very little additional conversation, which was just fine by Elaine's reckoning; best not to talk and eat at the same time, if what had happened to Peter was any indication.

After they cleared the table, Peter excused himself to finish his preparations for being outdoors and meeting the Joneses. Elaine went to check on her own appearance then returned to the foyer, where Mark and Bridget were already waiting. It was a touching scene; Bridget had his face in her hands, was saying something to him with a very serious expression before stretching up on her toes to give him a kiss on his lips. She then embraced him and held him tight.

Elaine hardly felt comfortable interrupting; it seemed that something was troubling them, but she dared not interfere. Bridget noticed her, though, before Elaine had the chance to say anything, and she stepped back and away from Mark.

"You're sure everything's all right?" asked Elaine.

"Oh, yes, of course," she said. Mark nodded in agreement. "Just a… small disagreement about when we need to be back on the road to London."

It reminded her of a favour she'd meant to ask. "Speaking of," said Elaine, "surely you have room to take Peter back with you. He says he doesn't mind taking the train, but a ride with family in a comfortable car would certainly be preferred."

"Of course," said Bridget. "I've done the trains often enough."

Mark nodded too. "Yes, of course we will."

Peter returned just then, as did Malcolm. "What'll you do?" he asked.

"Take you back to London with us."

…

Bridget's words of just a moment ago still echoed in his mind—"Please don't treat him any differently than you ever have, Mark; this changes nothing between you and me"—as he offered a ride to his brother with sincerity. Peter looked truly taken aback.

"That would be terrific," he said. "Otherwise I might have had to cut our rummaging short."

"That's sorted then," said Bridget.

The ride to the rummage sale took no time at all; all five of them sat comfortably in Mark's car. The sale was much larger than Mark was anticipating, so before too long his mother and father had wandered off to a table filled with porcelain shoes. Peter stuck near to him and Bridget, which was entertaining in itself; her commentary on the clothing up on offer was priceless, and before too long Peter was pitching in his own rejoinders.

"Well, here you are then," Peter said, picking up what at first appeared to be a bright lavender winter muffler; "straight from 1983."

Bridget reached out for it and realised with a howl of laughter what the object actually was. "Oh God. An actual legwarmer! I must have the match. These are too precious."

After a few minutes of digging into a pile of extraordinary acrylic knits in patterns that some might have considered a human rights violation—Mark was certain of this—the matching legwarmer was located. Bridget was delighted with the find beyond all reason. She held up the pair. "What do you think, hmm?" she asked. "Suitable for New Year's, do you think?"

Mark smiled.

"Perhaps under your wedding dress?" remarked Peter. "I mean, autumn weddings can be a bit nippy…"

At this she burst out into a fresh round of laughter. "Perish the thought! Though these do match the dress I had to wear for my parents' renewal of vows…"

They continued light, joking banter about the inevitably horrible dresses that bridesmaids have to wear, but Mark's attention had wandered off. The exchange about the legwarmers had been innocuous, but the very thought of his brother giving consideration to what Bridget would be wearing under her wedding dress made him extremely uncomfortable.

Mark felt her take him by the elbow, bringing him from his thoughts. "You're very quiet," she said, squeezing her hand on his upper arm. "Surely you have an opinion on bridesmaids' dresses."

"My opinion is that I should leave those choices to you, since you are, after all, more of an expert on dresses than I will ever be," he said; he hoped it was in a light tone, in the spirit of their conversation, but was not altogether sure he'd succeeded.

"Oh, come now, Mark," said Peter with a grin. "Surely you're confident enough in your masculinity to have an opinion on dresses."

Bridget giggled.

"I'm not sure why you're browbeating me for my opinion on an object I'll never personally wear," he said; again he was striving for levity, but Bridget's response told him he had not hit the mark.

"You never know," said Bridget, making Peter laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. He realised his mistake too late in the looks the two of them were giving him.

"No need to be so defensive and grumpy," she said. "Loosen up. Sorting through this stuff is actually a lot of fun."

"I wasn't being serious," Mark said.

"You're being _too_ serious," Bridget retorted.

Mark turned to his brother. "Do you think I'm being too serious?" Mark asked.

"I think you're being a little too serious, yes," said Peter hesitantly, "but I sort of expect that from you."

Mark sighed. There was no winning against these two, and there was the very likely possibility that they were right, so he opted just to surrender. "Sorry," he said.

Bridget came nearer to him, then surprised him with a hug and a kiss on the mouth. His reaction to the spontaneous display of public affection caused him to stiffen a bit, but she understood, at least he knew she did through her expression when she pulled back. "Sorry too," she said, looking up at him sympathetically (and a bit naughtily, holding the promise of additional apologies to come) with a small smile. After a few minutes, when she spoke again, it was on a different subject: "Come on. Let's see if we can't find you a nice new Christmas tie."

At this he did smile, then put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I love you," he whispered before placing a kiss into the hair just over her ear.

Mark's spirits did perk up a bit, particularly when she located a lurid green and red tie that she declared would be perfect for the holidays. "Particularly the Turkey Curry buffet," she added. "Always the best place to show off one's finery."

"Turkey Curry—what?" asked Peter.

Bridget began to chuckle. "My parents throw this… party. On New Year's Day."

"Why _turkey_ curry?" Peter asked.

Bridget opened her mouth to respond, but she said nothing. After a moment she closed it again, then said, "You know, I'm not sure."

"Probably started out as a way to use up Christmas leftovers, then… turkey sales post-Christmas, I'd bet," filled in Mark.

"Oh my God," she replied, stopping in her tracks so suddenly it alarmed Mark. "You're a bloody genius. How did I not figure that out?"

Mark chuckled. "Just makes sense to we geniuses, that's all." She smiled; Peter looked a bit confused.

"Bridget! Mark!"

"And speaking of my parents," she said sheepishly, turning to face them. Mark did as well. There were Pam and Colin Jones. Pam, wearing a bright salmon two-piece with a matching wide-brimmed hat and owlish sunglasses, waved enthusiastically as they approached. Her husband, too like Mark in temperament and reticence, was flushed pink, possibly from sun exposure or maybe sheer embarrassment. Pam came and reached for her daughter, air-kissing over each cheek, then did the same to Mark, an eccentric little quirk he had learned to live with.

"And _you_," said Pam melodramatically, looking at Peter. "You must be no one else in this world but Peter Darcy. So handsome, so like your brother! What a delight to see you after far too long!" She reached forward and offered her affection in that same quirky way, and to Peter's credit he did not recoil but allowed it.

"Hello, darling," said Colin to his daughter, then, "hello Mark, and Peter. Nice to see you again." Colin offered his hand to his brother, who shook with a relieved sort of grin.

"Your mother mentioned, well, _what happened_, and I'm sorry, so sorry," said Pam. Mark hoped dearly that she would not press for details, and was thankful when she let it drop. "It's a nice a day, isn't it? Simply lovely. There are some refreshments under the marquee. Have you been?"

"Let's go," said Bridget, obviously grateful for the excuse to interrupt. "I'm parched."

Bridget shot ahead to keep pace with her mother; Peter turned to Mark and said quietly, "Question for you, from a professional standpoint, about your mother-in-law-to-be."

"Ask away."

His face was pure seriousness as he said, "What is she on, and where can I get some?"

Shocked, Mark looked at him then realised that Peter was only joking, at which he began to chuckle. "Whatever it is," he said, "I'll do anything to keep it out of Bridget's hands."

"What's going on over there?" called Pam, pulling her sunglasses to the tip of her nose, then winking. "I don't know, brotherly conspirators as always, you two."

"She's… something else," whispered Peter. "Wow."

"While I am very fond of her for Bridget's sake," said Mark, "I'm quite happy that she's two and a half hours away."

On offer was a fruit punch-ginger ale combination that was quite refreshing and at fifty pence a glass it was well worth the donation. A few biscuits were also irresistible, particularly as they were chocolate chip. The sober, serious and pleasant chat with Colin and Peter more than made up for Pam's over-the-top flightiness. Before Mark knew it, it was time for them to pay for their finds then get back to the Darcys' house, pack the boot and get on the road back to London.

The ride was pleasant enough. During the course of conversation, Mark learned that Peter's new flat was not due to be ready until the beginning of next month. "So… where are you staying, then?"

Peter seemed to demur in answering. "I… booked a hotel room. Need to check in when I get into town."

"That's ridiculous," said Mark. "You should have just asked me."

…

Peter had considered but decided not to ask his brother about staying with him for the fortnight needed until his own place was available; he had not wanted to impose on him and his fiancée, and was particularly glad he had not asked given who his fiancée had turned out to be.

"It's all right," said Peter. "I don't want to intrude on your space."

Bridget made a dismissive sound. "Mark's house has lots of room. In fact, someone else could be living there right now and you'd never be able to tell."

"She's right," said Mark with a chuckle. "Really, it'd be no intrusion at all."

Peter furrowed his brow. Mark's house? "It really wouldn't bother you," he began tentatively, "me staying with the two of you?"

Bridget seemed to grasp his confusion. "Oh, I don't live with Mark yet," she explained.

"Oh," said Peter, for a lack of anything else useful to say.

"So is that a 'yes'?" asked Bridget.

"I don't know how I could possibly refuse," said Peter. "The choice between a sterile hotel or my brother's home…"

"Bridget might argue that the house is equally sterile," Mark said coolly, which surprised Peter; surprising him even more was that Bridget smiled and seemed to play along. It reminded him of a little earlier, when Mark had chastised her for not figuring out the origin of the turkey curry tradition, then before that, when she had tried to comfort Mark and he had visibly stiffened at her hug. He thought Mark loved her, but was he aware that he was doing and saying these little hurtful things to her?

"You and your penchant for white things," said Bridget in return, then laughed a little.

Peter turned to glance out of the window, not really sure how to respond except to say, "I do appreciate your letting me stay."

"It won't be any trouble at all," Mark said. "What about the rest of your things?"

"Have my clothes in those suitcases. Everything else, and there's not much, I was waiting to have shipped until I had a more fixed address."

"Reasonable," said Mark. "You can just have them sent to my house."

"Sorted," said Bridget. She reached into her handbag, pulled out her keys, then worked one off of the fob. "Here you are," she said with a smile, handing him the extracted key. "You can use mine for now."

"Thanks."

Peter observed Mark reach over for her hand and take it to hold. He suspected it was possibly a silent apology; he was happy to see Mark offer one, even if only that.

They went directly to what Peter assumed must have been Bridget's flat. They each exited the car (Peter to take the front passenger seat—his brother did not like feeling like a chauffeur); Mark went to the boot for her bag. After slamming the hood down, curiosity got the better of Peter and he glanced towards them in time to see him brush her hair back over her ears then give her a kiss, lingering by her ear and saying something to make her smile. Maybe Peter had misread their interactions.

Once Mark had returned to the car and drove away into traffic, he said, "I promised I'd go back after getting you settled in at home, if that's all right."

"I can take care of myself, Mark," he joked.

"It's just that we'd already planned on dinner together tonight, a night in with a film…"

"You don't have to do it there on my account," Peter said.

Mark chuckled. "You don't understand," he said. "We usually end up at her flat, not at my house. It's just more… comfortable there. Cosy." He shot a glance to his brother and smiled. "I'm looking forward to our living together, if for no other reason it won't be quite so… sterile."

As soon as he got into Mark's house, he understood the earlier jest. The rooms of Mark's house might have been a catalogue of adverts rather than a living space. He couldn't resist a smile, then a laugh. "I see what you mean about sterile."

"I was going for classical, but I do concede it can seem rather spartan," he admitted. "Bridget's convinced that the decorator was colour-blind and simply afraid to admit it."

Peter chuckled; he could truly imagine her saying this.

His own room, one of the guest rooms, was where they deposited his suitcases. The bed was already made up, as if Mark expected guests on a frequent basis. When they got to the kitchen, Mark apologised directly in a rather sheepish tone: "I am quite sure there's plenty of food in here, but I still have trouble finding it, so… good luck."

Peter could not help but laugh out loud at this. It struck him as ridiculous that his brother didn't know his way around his own kitchen. "What, did you just move in?"

Mark had the good sense to look embarrassed as he answered, "No." He then started laughing too. "Bridget doesn't let me hear the end of it, but she fares no better in there."

"That doesn't surprise me," Peter said. "She doesn't live here, and it doesn't sound like she spends a lot of time here, either."

Mark looked pensive; Peter wondered if he'd gone too far. "That's fair," said Mark. "We'll see, then, when she does live here."

"You'll have to let me know."

"I will." He glanced to his watch. "I should go. I'm supposed to pick up some curries. If you're in the mood, I think the telly and so on is rather self-explanatory." He headed towards the stairs, but turned back. "Don't, er, wait up for me."

Peter grinned. "Loud and clear, brother."

As Mark left, Peter's grin faded. He totally understood his brother's desire to spend time with his fiancée. He was just not looking forward to a night alone in an unfamiliar house.

The search for dinner was not as excruciating as he thought it might be, and after a satisfying meal of bangers and mash (and a bottle of Newcastle Brown), he realised that between the travel and the surprises of the weekend, he was bone-tired and was best off just going to bed.

He showered, then peeled back the sheets of crisp white linen (evoking another chuckle), then slipped in. His night in the country had been expectedly quiet, but here, the lack of sound seemed odd, almost stifling. He tossed and turned before falling into a troubled sleep:

He was in Paris again, and face to face with him was the young Bridget as they stood before the bed; it was dark, he was completely naked, as was she, and she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. He had no compunction here in reaching forward and kissing her, brushing her golden locks back and away from her face, running his hands down and over her lovely backside, as velvety as he remembered. Here, in this dream world, she had no hesitation in kissing him back. She caressed his abdomen with delicate fingers, but showed no shyness in reaching between his legs to stoke his passion until he was moaning and begging her let him make love to her. She acquiesced; he climbed over her, drove into her, eliciting beautiful, sexy, throaty groans with each thrust. He could feel his climax building, and at the point of culmination—

—he awoke from his dream, bathed in sweat and aching for release. He cursed himself for allowing his mind to wander into such forbidden territory, and threw back the sheets in order to go to the guest bathroom, grateful that he was alone in the house.

He hoped that the cool shower would calm his body and mind, and it did. He leaned against the cool tile, gasping for breath as the stream of water pounded down over his head, feeling guilty for the traitorous thoughts that had allowed him to betray his brother, if only in his dreams, in his mind.

Peter swore then and there that nothing would tempt him to do so in real life.

…

"Hope your brother's okay," came her quiet voice in the darkness, even surprising herself a little.

Mark roused to wakefulness in response. "What?"

"Peter," she said, then turned over in the double bed to meet his inquisitive brown eyes with her own. "What a month to have, splitting up with a fiancée, packing up an entire life in order to move back home, then finding yourself confronted with a… youthful indiscretion in the form of your own brother's fiancée."

He draped an arm over her then pulled her close for a kiss. "I'm sure he's fine," said Mark quietly. "He said not to worry, so don't."

"If he's anything like you," she said, "he's good at hiding what he's really feeling, so sorry… I am a bit worried."

She heard him chuckle deep in his throat. "He's not that much like me," he said. "I was always the stoic. He was… not."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Swear that I'm not," Mark said, his voice laced with such grogginess it told her he was falling back to sleep.

"Mark," she said urgently.

"Bridget, go to sleep. We both of us have to work in far too few hours."

"Mark," she said again, this time her voice cracking at the crispness of his response.

"Darling, come here." He pulled her close into his arms and kissed her; in too short a time he seemed to forget his own remonstration that they needed to be up early, was coaxing her onto her back and making tender love with her again.

Not that she needed much coaxing.

"Love you, Mark," she said, his breath hot on her shoulder as they curled in the afterglow.

"Love you," he replied, "more than you will ever know."

Within moments he was snoring softly again; oddly, this reassured her, made her chuckle, and allowed her to relax into slumber.

…

Only with great reluctance did Mark open his eyes the next morning. He really should have learned his lesson by now that staying at Bridget's on a Sunday night was bad news, that he was always far too tired and sluggish because inevitably he got far too little sleep.

He then saw her sleeping on the pillow beside him, resting on her side and turned away from him, and knew instantly that this poorly conceived tradition would continue because he had no willpower to resist her invitation. He leaned over and kissed her on the shoulder. "Morning."

She grunted in response.

"Time to get up," he said.

"I can be late," she mumbled. "I'm always late; they don't care."

"Bridget, darling, they do care."

She turned over, lifted sleepy lids to meet his gaze. "Bring me coffee?" she asked sweetly.

"You're just trying to buy time to sleep a little longer."

"Well, durr," she said, closing her eyes again.

At this he tore back the covers, exposing her to the morning air. She shrieked and reached for them, but he intercepted her and forced her to sit up. The kiss (and the loving caress on her backside) helped assuage hurt feelings, confirmed by her giggles and the fact that she kissed him back.

"Come on," he said. "I'll make the coffee, but you can make us something to eat."

"How do you feel about yoghurt?" she said.

He laughed because he had walked right into that one; her yoghurt was in small, individual containers and came premixed. "That's just fine."

"I'll throw in a little muesli," she said, "just to spice things up a bit."

They had their breakfast together before he rose to dress so he could get back to his house in order to suit up and grab his attaché for the day. As he drove towards his home, he thought despite how dim things had seemed to him upon learning the news of Peter and Bridget's past together, everything might just work out, after all.


	4. Chapter 3

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>SummaryDisclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3.<strong>

"Oh. Hi."

Only two days had passed since Peter had taken temporary residence in his brother's home. He had a lead on a position in a nearby hospital but mostly his days had been spent in what for him was a change of pace: relaxing, taking walks around the neighbourhood, visiting the local shops and generally enjoying being back in England. He'd been in the middle of indulging in a bit of afternoon television while Mark was at work when the front bell went off quite insistently.

Standing on the front step was Bridget, and her extemporaneous blurt was what greeted him when he swung the front door open.

"Hi," Peter said. "Come on in."

"Sorry," she said as she entered into the foyer. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought Mark was already home. And I don't have my own key anymore."

"Oh." He dug into his pocket, palmed her key, and handed it back to her. "I've made a copy." Taking in her distraught expression, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No," she said, plainly lying as her eyes glossed over. "We just… had a disagreement earlier and I… wanted to apologise in person."

"Disagreement?" asked Peter.

"Nothing major," she said, then chuckled a little. "Some things I just take too much to heart and I—anyway, it's nothing at all. I just hate leaving things at loose ends."

Peter was curious. "'Some things' like what?"

She wrung her hands a little nervously. "I suppose I could use another opinion," she said, more to herself than to him. "I was going to talk to my friends but they can't come out tonight."

"Opinion about…?" he asked.

"Wedding guests," she said. "He wants to invite his horrible, snooty partners in chambers, and I'd prefer just to have family and friends. He says it's an insult not to ask them. I think it's silly to invite someone out of duty, but he thinks I'm being…" She sighed. "Unreasonable, wilful and a bit spoiled." Peter winced to hear it. "But maybe I am. Maybe I'm just being selfish. Marriage is a partnership, right?" As she said the words, she looked instantly remorseful. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise," he said. "And yes, it is, and no, honestly, I don't think you're being selfish." As her expression brightened slightly, he added, feeling emboldened, "Frankly, it doesn't sound like Mark much wants to have them there either, but feels duty-bound to do so."

She smirked a little. "He has never said, 'I _want_ Horatio Fussybottom to be there.' Always that he _must_ be there."

Peter burst out with a laugh. "Fussybottom?"

"No idea what his last name really is," she admitted. "Fussybottom suits him."

"And yet he is continuing to insist on it," said Peter. "I'm sure he must have a good reason, and it's a pretty small thing to insist on in the grand scheme."

Bridget looked glum. "He doesn't really insist on much else for the wedding," she said.

"Sounds like it might be a fair point to compromise on," said Peter.

"I suppose you're right," she said at last. "When you put it like that I feel lower than a slug."

"Don't," he said. "Besides, Fussybottom will turn green with envy when he sees how gorgeous Mark's new wife looks in her wedding dress. Probably that's the real reason why he wants the old bastard there." He grinned as she did. "Why don't you come in and finish watching this horrible tripe on the telly with me and wait for him to come home, and then you can talk. Tea?"

She smiled. "Yes, that'd be lovely. Milk, no sugar."

"You've got it."

Peter went down to make a pot of tea; when he returned with the tray bearing it, two mugs, a small carafe of milk and a plateful of biscuits, she was comfortably lounging on the sofa and laughing at the programme on the screen. "Here we are," said Peter, pouring a cup for her.

"Thanks." She smiled in a way that struck him as rather nostalgic.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked.

"Was just reminded of your ordering for me when my French was so appalling," she said a bit abashedly.

"_C'était mon plaisir_," he said. "Has your French improved at all?"

She pouted. "It's gotten worse from disuse," she admitted.

He took a seat on the other side of the sofa, the tray with the teapot between them. Immediately she plucked a biscuit from the tray. As the programme continued they laughed and joked, making comments to one another. It was clear to him that her dark cloud of a mood had lifted.

"I should have guessed."

They both turned in mid-laugh to see Mark had appeared at the door to the sitting room. He looked disturbed, even angry. Bridget set down her teacup. "I was waiting here for—"

"Why haven't you been answering my calls?" he interrupted.

"I haven't gotten any—oh, hold on." She leaned to reach into her pocket for her phone, punching buttons and getting no response. "Battery's dead. Sorry." She stood from the sofa. "Shall we have some supper?" she asked in a very conciliatory manner; Peter suspected this was a prelude to an apology for the earlier row.

"I've already eaten," he barked. "I've had a long day, so I'm going upstairs to get some sleep. If you could keep the volume down, I would appreciate it." With that, with extreme coolness, he left the room.

Bridget stood there, shocked into silence, then glanced down to Peter. "Well, I guess that's that," she said in a papery voice.

"Follow him," said Peter.

"No, that's pointless," she said. "He's made it quite plain that talking is not in the cards right now. I'm… just going to go home, pop in a microwave meal."

"You can eat with me."

She looked sad. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Given what Mark had said upon his entrance, Peter realised she was right. "I can phone you a taxi." She nodded and muttered a quiet thanks, then sat again.

She said nothing more. Peter was angry on her behalf at Mark. How horrible to cut her off and not let her get a word of apology in at all. Not ten minutes later, just after nine-thirty in the evening, there was a quiet knock on the door. She rose, as did he, walking her to the door. "See you again soon," he said in a gentle voice.

"Thanks for the tea and biscuits," she said, then left.

…

Bridget willed herself not to cry, not during the entire taxi ride home, not while she pushed her key into the building's door. It was only after she opened her door and walked up into her flat that the tears began to flow, but not because Mark had been so harsh to her.

No, when she saw what was there, she realised his anger had been completely justified.

Though they had been snuffed out, there were candles on the table; there was a clean plate setting and an empty wine glass there too, as well as a covered casserole dish with a sullied serving spoon on a spoon rest beside it. Next to that was a bouquet of flowers which had carefully been placed in her crystal vase and arranged. Trembling fingers reached for the card; through tear-blurred eyes she read the sentiment inscribed within:

_B,_

_The only person I really want at our wedding is you. _

— _M_

"Oh," she said mournfully, realising what he had done when she'd been talking with and having tea with Peter: he had come to her flat with flowers to cook her a candlelit supper. He'd gotten tired of waiting, had eaten his portion, then gone home in disappointment, only to find her there with his brother.

In a flash she was pulling her flat door behind her, shooting down the stairs of her building; she hoped the taxi that had just dropped her off was still down there, but it wasn't.

_No matter_, she thought as she started running for Mark's house.

She was breathless by the time she got there, her hands shaking as she unlocked his front door. She pushed it open then went inside, closing it carefully and quietly behind herself before scaling the stairs two at a time and rushing directly to the master bedroom.

…

The paragraph still made no sense the fourth time he'd read it, so with a long exhale of breath Mark set the book down and conceded that perhaps he did not in fact have the focus to read. He had heard the knock at the door, had gone to the top of the stairs and had heard Bridget leave, speaking quiet parting words to Peter.

Since then he had been in his bed at a ridiculous attempt to turn in early, in order to try to forget the regrettable events of the day. Even as the words had come out of his mouth he had regretted saying them. It was not unreasonable that she wanted the ceremony to remain small and private, nor was she acting spoiled in any sense of the word, because if she were, she'd want the biggest wedding possible and want to invite as many people as possible. To have accused of her of wilfulness was totally unfair; how was she being any more stubborn than he was?

All of this he had realised within moments of hanging up the telephone. Returning the call on her work line resulted in his reaching voice mail, and he didn't want to leave a message. To properly apologise he'd left work early, gone to her flat with flowers, and planned a pasta dinner for the two of them. When she hadn't turned up by the time he'd expected, he'd tried repeatedly to reach her via her mobile, to no success. Eventually he'd given up, cooked the pasta and had eaten it, then returned home in a sulk only to find out she'd been with Peter for the bulk of the evening.

His reaction in total had been a bad one, a culmination of a day's worth of misunderstanding and aggravation ending in finding his fiancée with his brother. He told himself it had been innocent, that it had just been tea and biscuits, but it had not stopped his temper from flaring and him from storming out in his frustrated state, especially because she seemed to have been greatly enjoying Peter's company, had been perfectly happy doing so, while his day had been spent largely in abject misery. Admittedly he had been fuelled by resentment when he'd stormed out; he was disappointed though not surprised she had not come up after him. After all, he'd made it quite plain that she had been dismissed from his presence.

Just then he heard what sounded like footsteps on the landing, which concerned him because he could have sworn he'd heard Peter leave the house. He sat upright and away from the pillows he'd put behind his back while reading just as the door was flung wide.

What greeted his eyes startled him completely: it was Bridget, and she was dishevelled and sweaty, panting for air, her hair wild as she stood there filling the doorframe as best she could given her diminutive stature. He was ashamed to admit that he thought the mussed look was utterly sexy on her. "Mark," she managed.

"Bridget," he said in a sharp, stunned voice. "What—"

He stopped short at her quick movement towards him; she ran over to the bed and as she jumped in beside him she plucked his reading glasses from where they were perched on his nose, set them hastily down on the nightstand, threw her arms around his neck and began kissing him with abandon. In response his arms came up and around her, bringing her close to him, kissing her in return, awash in relief that he was evidently forgiven and the unpleasantness of their disagreement forgotten.

In short order she slipped out of her pants, pulled her dress over her head and off, pushed the bedding aside and pounced upon him where he lie. He could not say he was unreceptive; even if he did feel as if he had been taken quite by surprise, he very much enjoyed her taking the reins of their make-up sex.

As they found their respective satisfaction, Mark was suddenly quite glad that Peter had gone out, as he was not sure their voices were confined to the top floor. Afterwards, as they lie with one another, clinging to one another, kissing and running hands over warm skin, enough oxygen made it back to his brain for him to think about the state of her arrival and her unkempt appearance therein.

"Darling," he said in a rasp from his place beneath her, where they came to rest. "When you first got here, why did you look like you'd run all the way back?"

"Because I did," she said sheepishly, looking down upon him. "I saw the flowers, the dinner, and I ran."

He was tucking her hair behind her ear but stopped as her meaning sunk in. "You—what?"

"Ran."

His irritation crept into his voice without his being aware of it: "You ran all the way here, all alone, in the twilight?"

She chuckled. "That's the Mark I know." She ducked her head to kiss him again. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said. "If you want to invite Horatio and Camilla, you can. I mean…" She trailed off, shifting to the side resting her head on her folded elbow on the pillow beside him so that she could run her finger over his brow and down and over his cheek. "It's not your first time doing this, so it's not quite so romanticised for you…"

He drew his brows together. "Do you think I want them there because this is like a business transaction to me?" he asked gently. "Because I've already been married once?"

She didn't respond, only looked a bit embarrassed.

"Because that's not true at all," he said with equal gentleness. "My first wedding was the business transaction. This one has my stomach fluttering with nerves, wanting everything to be perfect, and wanting not just my friends and family there, but the people I work with as well."

She frowned a little. "Because they think you're making a mistake."

That might have been true to an extent, but he would never say so to her. "I want them all to see how happy you make me," he said, "and give them a chance to know you better, too."

At last she smiled a little. "You are a softie at heart," she said. "I always suspected." She pushed herself forward to kiss him again but stopped then turned bright red.

"What?"

"My stomach."

"What about it?"

"It just screamed out for supper."

He sat up with a chuckle. "You didn't eat?"

"I didn't care about that before," she said. "I just wanted to come here to you as soon as possible and beg forgiveness."

"You never need beg," he said, "because I'm a pushover when it comes to you." He smiled, looking at her lovingly, then let out an exaggerated sigh as he teased, "I suppose you'll want a snack or something?"

"I would love a snack."

"What do you want?"

"Surprise me."

"Fine." He pushed the sheets aside. "Spending all my time cooking," he lamented. "Beginning to feel like an overworked housewife."

"You would look very sweet in an apron," she said drowsily. He laughed again, bent to peck a kiss on her lips, then slipped into his robe.

Given that he wanted to bring her something more substantial than a bag of crisps for her dinner, he made her a sandwich with turkey, roast beef, cheddar, lettuce and tomato, all on wholegrain bread with some mustard. He poured her a glass of milk and then, along with a handful of crisps on the side of the plate, brought her meal up to her.

"Here you are, m'lady," he said. She had clearly dozed and at his voice she opened her eyes and pushed herself upright, covering her chest with the sheet. He chuckled, shaking his head and said, "Really not necessary, darling; it's nothing I haven't seen before." She pursed her lips. "Or am likely to tire of seeing."

"Flatterer," she said with a grin.

He handed her the plate; all thoughts of her modesty went out the window at the sight of her supper. "Oh, Mark, that looks fantastic," she said. "Thank you. Though…"

"What?"

"You're not going to shout at me for getting crumbs in bed, are you?" she asked with a half-smile.

"Mm. Just be careful," he admonished lovingly, sitting beside her, holding the glass of milk until she wanted a sip. "You know," he said in a slightly more stern tone, "I don't want you doing that again, running across town by yourself when it's getting dark."

There was an advantage to speaking to her when she was eating; she had a more difficult time responding with a mouth full of food. He would definitely have to remember this in future.

"You should have taken a taxi back," he went on, taking advantage of her silence. "I would have been happy to pay. Or you could well have called me."

"Buh Mm," she managed, then chewed more and swallowed, repeating, "But Mark. We'd had a fight."

"So?" he asked.

She looked surprised by his quick, curt response. Then she laughed, picking up a crisp. "Okay, then," she said. "There is no possible argument against that." The crisp then disappeared into her mouth; she then reached for her drink, and only then noticed it was a tall glass of milk. She looked at it, then at Mark, with a measure of incredulity on her face. "Milk? Am I five?"

"Of course not, darling," he said with all due sombreness. "But you're still a growing girl."

She laughed as she brought the milk glass to her mouth, sputtering a bit on the sip she had begun to take. "Trying to kill me," she murmured, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Nonsense," he said as she took a proper sip. "I can think of no one else I'd allow to eat a sandwich in my bed."

"It must be love." She took another bite, then as she did so, seemed inspired to say something else, emphatically making unintelligible sounds until she chewed and swallowed again. "Ooh, do I get to stay the night? We hardly ever stay over here."

The way she said it, like a small child expressing joy over an unexpected trip to the zoo, made him smile, then chuckle. "Unless you'd really like to stop to get dressed, drive over there, undress and carry on."

"Uh," she said, pretending to think about it before saying, "no."

She finished the sandwich and crisps, gulped down the last of the milk, then handed him the plate and the glass. "Much better," she said as she rested back on the pillow, her arm stretched up over her head in a very alluring pose. As tempted as he was to lean forward and kiss her again, he knew that having the plate and glass sitting there on the nightstand would drive him to distraction. He set the dishes down, backed away from her then rose to his feet; this action of his was met by a frown.

"Be right back," he said as he slipped into his robe. "Dirty dishes in the bedroom are where I draw the line."

At this she smiled, then laughed. "All right. But be quick about it. Still have some making up left to do."

This parting shot of hers put a smile on Mark's face as he left his bedroom, closing the door behind himself.

…

Peter hadn't meant to get plastered. He'd only intended on getting supper.

After the unsettling scene between Bridget and Mark—the coolness of Mark's voice as he spoke, Bridget's retreat for her place after such a flat dismissal—he hadn't the motivation to cook himself anything. He instead went to a nearby pub, ordered fish and chips and a pint of bitter.

How had Mark gotten so lucky, he thought, when it seemed he took her so very much for granted? Mark might have loved her, or thought he loved her, but if that argument and the response therein was any gauge of his actual respect for her, he didn't deserve her. Smart, pretty, lively and witty… and Mark clearly did not appreciate it. In fact, where Peter had initially thought Bridget had changed Mark in some fundamental way, it seemed with regards to emotional matters, Mark had not changed at all. Perhaps the first impressions formed in Grafton Underwood had been completely wrong in all respects.

This overwhelming sense of moroseness drove him to order a second pint, then a third. His sadness turned to annoyance, then to regret. "I would have appreciated her," he muttered to himself, which snapped him to his present, to pay his bill and make his way back to the house.

As Peter came in through the front door, he was stunned to see his brother coming down the stairs in his robe carrying dishes from his room. It surprised him not only because his brother was not prone to eating anything in bed—he was far too fastidious for that—but that he looked so incredibly content and relaxed after sending his fiancée home with a broken heart and a wounded ego.

"Peter, you're home," Mark said, equally stunned.

"Bit of a snack?" he asked, barely containing his annoyance.

"A bit," he said with a smirk, then went on his way down to the kitchen.

Peter felt as if he should have done something—shouted at his brother, shaken some sense into him, punched him in the face—but he was rendered immobile by his anger. Instead, after Mark disappeared down into the kitchen, Peter made his way up to his own room. Even as he sat on the bed, he considered that he should go to the loo to wash up before bed or at the very least undress. Instead he fell back onto the bed, his head swimming with the remnants of his alcohol consumption, his tiredness and his unexpressed outrage at his brother, and he fell into a deep sleep.

When he opened his eyes, he found he was no longer in Holland Park in a guest bedroom at his brother's house, but rather in a rented flat some miles away, some years ago. It was dark, but there was movement in the room. "Who's there?" he asked.

"Oh." A female voice. "Didn't mean to wake you. I… have to go."

He reached for the bedside table to switch on the lamp.

"I have a plane to catch."

"No, wait," he said, pushing himself upright, astounded by the apparent turn of events. "You can't leave without—" He stopped short.

"Without what? My pants? Got them."

"Without giving me your number."

"I thought we said—"

"I don't care what we said. I really want to see you when I get back to England."

Her blue eyes blinked rapidly. "But I'm still at uni."

"I don't care," he said. "You won't be forever."

After a pause, she took pen to paper to add something to the end of the note she'd already written. "You're a madman after all," she joked.

"Maybe I am," he said. "But the alternative is to wither away and die not knowing."

With a lopsided grin she came near and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Goodbye, Peter," she said, holding out the note.

"Not 'goodbye'," he said, taking the proffered paper. "Rather, _au revoir_."

He looked down and opened the folded note. He expected to read as he remembered it reading, but when he opened it, it didn't seem to make sense at all. It was a garble of characters, and when he blinked they changed. The harder he tried to concentrate, the less he could understand it, until at last the letters came into focus:

_will be sister-in-law_

He awoke with a start, curled up to his pillow, then took in a deep breath and closed his eyes once more. Bloody dream. He should have known better than to think it was possible to revisit that night and change the course of things.

…

"Darling."

Bridget heard Mark's voice through the haze of her slumber, opened her eyes then blinked a few times. "Mark? What took you so long?"

He chuckled. "It's morning," he said. "You fell asleep and I didn't have the heart to wake you."

"Oh," she said, her disappointment evident in her voice; she realised he was already dressed and shaved. "Well, it was a good night nonetheless."

He raised his hand and stroked her hair. "Well, after the false start there at first," he mused, "yes, it was." He bent to kiss her. "Come on. Need to get you home so you can get ready for work."

"Coffee?"

"Yes." As he indicated the bedside table, the aroma reached her; sitting there was a steaming mug of fresh brew. She pushed herself upright and smiled. _He knows how to get me into bed_, she thought, _and how to get me out_.

It was Mark's chuckle that made her realise with a blush that she had spoken those words aloud. He bent forward and kissed her. "Love you, Bridget," he said, the smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth.

"Wish we didn't have to work."

"Alas," he said, rising from the bed, "we do. And if you'd like a lift home, the train leaves in ten minutes. On this I remain firm."

She raised a brow. "Fine," she said with an exaggerated sigh, kicking back the covers, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, then reaching for her coffee cup. In a light tone she teased, "Now it's clear why I don't stay over more."

"You're doomed when we're married, then," he returned, plucking her clothes up from where they'd been discarded for easier and presumably faster dressing.

"Ah, but I won't need a lift home when we're married," she said.

"That's a fair point," he conceded. "I can't find your pants."

The abrupt change of subject meant she didn't understand him for a split second. "What?"

With a serious furrowing of his brow he went on: "Are you sure you were wearing them?"

"If I had something to throw at you," she warned. "Yes, I was wearing pants. They've got to be here somewhere."

As she drank her coffee she idly looked around the room, but could not spot the pants for anything. "Well," she said. "I know I wore some, but I guess I'll have to go without for the interim."

She watched Mark's expression; he looked like he might have a naughty comment on the tip of his tongue but did not dare say it. Finally he said, "I suspect we can manage to get you home without incident. Just… take care when getting out of the car."

This made her giggle. She then got to her feet to step in to her skirt, then slipped into her brassiere. As she reached to clasp it closed, she caught Mark looking raptly in her direction. At her undoubtedly quizzical look, he said, "I feel like I'm watching some kind of bizarre reverse striptease."

At this she struck a pose, tilting her hips as she bent for the shirt and pulled it over her shoulders, doing the buttons up slowly.

"Feel as if I should whistle," he said drolly, but could tell from his lingering gaze that he did appreciate her effort.

"Or stuff a five pound note into my top."

"Oh, darling," he said, seemingly snapping out of his reverie, "you're worth twenty quid at the very least."

"I'm not sure I should thank you or throw something at you," she said, then laughed. After sipping the last of her coffee, she said, "I suppose I should be grateful that it's so early I'm not likely to see a soul I know. Let me just go in there for a moment, and we can go."

She went into the loo, availed herself of the facilities, then lathered up the soap to wash her face. Truth be told she rather liked staying the night with Mark in this house; it felt as if they were staying in a really posh hotel for a secret tryst. At this she chuckled. She was sure he wouldn't understand.

"What's so funny?" he asked as she exited the loo with the silly grin still on her face.

"Oh, nothing. Just…" She hesitated, then explained what she'd just been thinking.

"So you…" he began, sounding confused and a bit hurt. "You feel like you'll be living in a hotel?"

"Of course not," she said. "Your house is so nice and tidy and, well, posh compared to my flat. Change of scenery is all." She put her arms around his neck, got up onto her toes, then gave him a peck on the lips. "Come on. I'm sure that train's ready to leave and I don't want it to go without us."

"Right. Time we push away from the platform," he said, kissing her again, then allowing her to walk in front of him down the stairs. "Meanwhile, I'll keep my eyes open for your stray pants," he added in a quiet voice as they passed through the foyer. As he passed by his briefcase he swept it up, and they were out the door and on their way.

…

By the time Peter rose the next morning, it was nearing ten; he was sure Mark had long gone to work. This was confirmed by the fact that there was already coffee brewed in the pot on the counter. Groggily he poured himself a cup, and as he stirred in the sweetener he debated what he might like to eat. The thought of eating the usual breakfast-type foods made him feel a bit queasy, but oatmeal took a bit too long to prepare.

He decided to make a sandwich. This of course meant a full survey of the kitchen, because he hadn't had need of bread before now. In the last place he looked, a cupboard above the china, he found it at last. He made another discovery, one that perplexed him:

A pair of women's underpants.

They were in the corner and out of view. But for the zebra stripe pattern and silky material, he wouldn't have noticed them at all, and in fact he couldn't say with certainty if they'd been there during his previous visits to the kitchen, but decided they must have been. He wracked his brain to try to recall when Mark had rattled off to him (upon his taking residence a few days ago) when the cleaning service came to tend to the housekeeping; every other Wednesday? He had some notion that today was when they were due to show. He spotted the elastic waistband and grasped gingerly in order to pick them up; he felt ludicrous doing so, but he had no idea what the provenance of these pants were. A few more seconds of searching and he found a plastic carrier bag in which to place them.

Bridget had intimated that she never stayed the night at Mark's. Peter found he had lost his appetite for breakfast at the thought that he might have found the reason why.

Peter decided he had to get out of the house, and so after depositing the carrier bag with the suspect pants into his own room, he dressed then occupied himself with visiting the hospital on whose staff he hoped to join. It took his mind off of things well enough that he was able to have lunch and a few laughs at the pub with a few of his old mates.

He took the opportunity to do some shopping, had supper, and arrived home around seven in the evening. Upon arriving home, he realised why he had stayed away so long; he was overcome once again with the oppressive feeling of guilty knowledge, knew he was avoiding returning to it.

Mark's briefcase was already in the foyer, so he knew his brother was home. _Best to not put off the inevitable,_ he thought, then went up to his bedroom for the plastic sack and for the confrontation to follow. As he scaled the stairs, though, his bafflement grew; with the door to the master bedroom wide opened he saw Mark pacing around and apparently talking to himself.

"—this room is only so big, for heaven's sake—oh, Peter, you're back," said Mark.

"What's going on?" asked Peter. The room looked as if it had been tossed over by a burglar. "Have you been robbed?"

"Oh, just… looking for a lost item." He swore Mark turned crimson. "Don't suppose you've seen a stray, er, item of intimate apparel, have you?"

"As a matter or fact… hold on." Peter went to his room, astounded that his brother would mention this to him unprompted. He picked up the sack then brought it to Mark.

"In a sack?" asked Mark, opening it. As he peered inside, his relief was palpable. "Yes, this is them. Where were they? I have been going out of my mind, absolutely mental, searching since I've been home."

"In the kitchen," said Peter.

"Kitchen?" Mark brought his brows together. "Oh, I suppose they hitched a ride down on my robe. Thank you so much, Peter. Oh." He tucked the bag into his suit jacket pocket. "Please don't mention you found them to Bridget."

Peter was too shocked to be angry.

"Well, I'd better get on with tidying up my mess," said Mark.

"Want a hand?"

"That's quite all right," said Mark. "It won't take but a few minutes." He chuckled. "I made the mess, I'll clean it up, but thanks anyway. Oh, have you already eaten?"

Peter nodded, thinking of Mark's words in more than one light. "Yes. Yes I have."

"Ah. Supposed that to be the case. Guess I'm on my own tonight."

"What about Bridget?" Peter asked.

"She's seeing friends," said Mark. "I'll see her on Friday."

Peter was too surprised at his nonchalance to say anything meaningful; instead, he wandered away for his room, closing the door behind him, sighing heavily. He wasn't sure how he was going to be able to sit on this information. He loved his brother, but he could not be a party to deception of this magnitude. He would have to plan carefully what do to next.


	5. Chapter 4

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>SummaryDisclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

Thank you to everyone to has read and commented—my email has been wonky and the link within the email sent for review alerts no longer seems to work properly, so if I missed thanking you individually by reply, know that the kind words (and the typo/missing word that was pointed out!) were greatly appreciated.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4.<strong>

When Mark said he'd be seeing her on Friday, Peter had assumed it would be taking her to dinner or otherwise treating her to a night out to make up for the mid-week fiasco. In returning to the house from his interview at the hospital—one which he was sure had clinched him the position—he lifted his key to the lock only to find the door swing in.

"Oh, Peter, hello." It was Mark, looking for all the world like he was on his way out the door.

"Going to pick Bridget up?" Peter asked.

"Actually, no," said Mark, sounding almost sheepish. "Dinner. We're having a night in and she wanted to do it here."

"That's not so bad, is it?" asked Peter, feeling as if he were treading onto dangerously thin ice.

"Of course not," he said. "Without a doubt she brightens the place up." He paused. "Have you had dinner? Made plans?"

"Hadn't given it thought beside throwing something together from the refrigerator," he said.

"Nonsense," Mark said. "I'll get you something and you can eat with us."

"Are you sure?"

"Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't sure," said Mark. "Besides, it doesn't hurt for you two to… spend time together. As friends. Since soon enough you'll be family."

The statement was like a little dagger through Peter's heart, who was becoming increasingly convinced that Bridget really meant no more to him than his first wife, or any of the other girlfriends he'd bet; he was just better at hiding it (or faking it) now. "Of course," he said.

"She's downstairs reading," said Mark with a smile. "Was picking up some Indian takeaway. Plenty to go around, so I hope that's okay."

"That's fine," Peter replied. "See you in a little while."

He closed the door after Mark then slipped out of his jacket before heading down the stairs.

"Back already?" called a voice from the lower level. "Forget your wallet?"

"No," said Peter; she was on the sofa, facing forward and away from the stairs. At the sound of his voice she turned, looking slightly alarmed for the moment it took to register his presence. "Just me."

"Oh, hi," she said with a smile. "Thought it was a bit too soon for Mark to be back."

He opted to choose the chair rather than the opposite end of the sofa, because he knew he'd just have to move when Mark returned. She had apparently been attempting to read through some kind of magazine prior to his arrival. "What are you reading?" he asked.

Her expression indicated that she was less than enthusiastic about the magazine as she closed it then held it up for him to see. It was some kind of legal journal. "I figure if I try to educate myself on some of the things Mark has to deal with every day, maybe we can talk about some of them," she said. "Though I get the impression that he'd maybe prefer not to talk about them. I suppose it probably gets depressing if you bring it home with you."

"I can guarantee I never want to sit and chat about what I've seen in Accident and Emergency," quipped Peter.

She screwed up her face, then admitted, "This stuff is really horrible and boring." She then closed the magazine and tossed it aside. "How are things going for you?" she asked.

He told her about the interview process he'd been undergoing though, and how he was fairly confident he'd landed the position.

"Good news," she said with a smile. "The uncertainty of having no income is very stressful."

"No doubt." He leaned back into the chair, and as he did, she rose to her feet, drawing a look of confusion from him.

"Just using the ladies'," she said. "Be right back."

After the door closed behind her, Peter stood then headed into the kitchen area for a beer. As he returned to the chair, he reached for the telly remote then switched it on. After flipping past inanity on several different channels, he landed upon a cooking show that seemed very entertaining, one that a mate from the hospital had mentioned earlier that day. Within a minute or two he was chuckling; it was a good show indeed, crackling with wit, humour, and good advice on nutrition.

"What's this?" It was Bridget, returning from the loo. Before he had a chance to answer, she said, "Oh, I've seen this before! What a great programme." It did not surprise him at all that it would appeal to her; it was, he thought, yet one more thing they had in common. She sat on the sofa again, folding one leg beneath her. "Have they got to the recipes part yet?"

"Not yet," Peter replied.

After a few minutes of watching in pleasant silence with Bridget, chuckling along with her, he turned and said, "Let me pour you a drink. Wine?"

"Yes, that'd be great," she said. "White wine, I think."

Mark would likely be back very soon, so Peter added, "Red for Mark?"

"Of course," she said with a chuckle.

He poured Bridget's chilled white then brought it to her before returning to the kitchen to open a new bottle of red. As he did, he glanced to where she sat on the sofa. He could see her in partial profile as she raised her glass to have a sip, and just as she did she began to laugh at a comment made on the programme; she started to cough a little on the wine.

"You okay?" he asked, though it was clear she was. "Medical intervention needed?"

"I'm fine," she said in her embarrassment, turning to bestow a smile upon him. "Thanks though."

As she did this he felt his heart skip a beat. _Stupid_, he thought, _to be so affected this way_. "If you do, just need only to ask," he said. Even as he said it he knew he sounded like some kind of lovesick idiot.

"Next time I start to choke, you'll be the first I turn to," she said.

Carrying on with his task, Peter fell into a contemplative state. It terrified him to think that despite his best efforts he might still be managing to fall in love with her. And what if he were? Didn't she deserve more than what Mark was giving her?

"What's that you're watching?" Mark had returned. "Oh, lord, not the telly again. Can't we go a night without it? And this to boot. I don't think I can take any more of your experiments. I forbid you from watching this, Bridget, or any more telly while you're over."

Peter froze at the sternness of his tone and at the blanket declaration that she was not allowed to watch the television when she came over. He worked up the nerve to turn to look at them; Mark was just sitting beside her, leaning for a kiss as she switched off the machine.

"That's a good girl," Mark said quietly; Peter observed that his brother had the nerve to smile as he said it. "Now, I've got some yellow curry and remembered to ask for the extra naan—"

"I was watching that," interrupted Peter testily.

"Pardon?"

"I was the one who switched that on," Peter elaborated.

"It's all right," said Bridget in a conciliatory tone. "It's much nicer to talk to each other, I think."

"Peter, if you would, please bring over some plates and forks?"

"Sure," he said, then added, feeling petulant, "I'm a little surprised you're not insisting upon eating at the table."

"Don't tempt fate," said Bridget.

"The sofa's already brown," said Mark. "Just be careful is all I ask."

They ate and chatted, but Peter did not add much to the conversation. He felt far too uncomfortable listening to Bridget with her bright tone after being so humiliated over something as ridiculous as wanting to watch a television show.

"So how was your day?"

It startled him a little, being addressed directly by Mark. "Oh, not bad," he replied.

"He thinks he has the job," offered Bridget.

"Really?" said Mark, who seemed genuinely pleased.

"Like there was a doubt," joked Bridget. "If you're to medicine what Mark is to the law…"

"You flatter me, darling," said Mark. "Please never stop."

At this she laughed and leaned to kiss him. "Never stop, yourself. To hear you tell I'm the best television presenter that ever did appear."

"You're certainly the most entertaining," Mark said with a smile. "And I hardly need wait for your programme to experience it."

She stuck out her tongue playfully, then scooped up a forkful of curry and rice.

"What's next for your work?" asked Peter, suddenly determined to keep the conversation on the reviled subject of the television.

"Oo!" said Bridget excitedly before getting a chance to eat her food. "The Smooth Guide's having me do some more segments, so they're sending me to Brighton as there's going to be some kind of seaside festival thing."

"With Daniel?" asked Mark coolly.

"Well, yes," she said. "He's the Guide. But really, Mark, you don't have to be like that. If it weren't for him…"

"I know," Mark said, then smiled crookedly. "I just sort of hate feeling indebted to him."

"I know you do," Bridget said. "Besides, it's not like we're heading too far from home."

"Daniel?" asked Peter belatedly. "The same Daniel who—"

"Yes," said Mark in a clipped tone.

"So how is the world so small that you two work together?" asked Peter. "I thought Daniel worked in publishing, besides."

Mark's expression told Peter that a can of unwanted worms had just been opened. "He did. And Bridget used to work at his publishing house, in publicity."

"We used to go out," Bridget admitted sheepishly.

"Really?" asked Peter, astonished. "What, did Mark pinch you from him?"

"No," said Mark firmly, just as Bridget said,

"He betrayed me, so I chucked him."

"Would have served him right," Peter said. "So how did he figure into everything? And why continue working with him?"

"It's a long story," said Mark, suggesting he really did not want to pursue the conversation any further.

"He may be a jerk," said Bridget, "and I would never trust him on a personal level again, but we have pretty great screen chemistry."

Mark visibly squirmed at this admission, and, Peter noted, did not refute it.

"I'm curious," said Peter, taking advantage of the situation and feeling a bit evil. "Have you got any shows recorded?"

"Not here," said Bridget, "but I can get you a copy."

"I'd like that."

Mark looked reluctant. "I have, actually."

"What?" asked Bridget.

"Don't say 'what', say 'pardon'," said Mark almost automatically. "I have copies of your shows. I've recorded everything you've done."

"Oh, Mark, you big softie," said Bridget. She set her plate down in order to lean over, put her arms around his neck and kiss him. Peter swore Mark blushed.

"Am I allowed to watch them?" asked Peter. "Or will you shout at me, too?"

Mark chuckled; did he think this was funny? "We can watch them. I've put them on discs." Mark gestured towards where some DVDs were stored, mostly likely (thought Peter) in alphabetical order. "They're there on the shelf, labelled."

Peter rose to find the discs, which were sitting on the bottom shelf in cases of their own, apparently elaborately organised and meticulously labelled by date and by show. He chose the earliest one, then switched on the player and the television itself.

"See what happens when I don't go poking around in your things?" she said with a smile. "So do you really have everything?"

"I do," said Mark abashedly. "Aghani-Heaney to Thailand and beyond."

"What about that terrible, boring interview with the impenetrable Irish author?"

Without a moment's hesitation, he replied, "Disc three, number five."

She laughed. "You sweet, sweet man," she said.

When Peter pressed play, he heard a gasp from Bridget as she appeared on the screen in a firehouse sliding down the fireman's pole and into the cameraman, backside first. Peter could not help laughing; Bridget blazed bright red.

"Oh yes," said Mark. "I forgot that I have this too."

"I take it back," said Bridget with a pout. "You're terrible to have preserved this for posterity."

Her final word's similarity to 'posterior' caused both of the men to laugh.

"The truth can now be told," said Mark. "It was the fireman's pole bit that really did it for me." Her mouth dropped open at this admission. Mark laughed again. "This shouldn't be news to you, Bridget; I told you as much at the time."

"Shush," she said, as she, Mark and two other individuals (a man and a woman) appeared on the screen. "Peter, this one's much better."

It _was_ better, decided Peter; it was an interview Bridget was conducting with them and he guessed that at the time this was filmed they did not know each other well at all. Peter was smart enough to see that their attraction towards one another was bursting from the screen.

"You were so funny," said Bridget. "Tripping over your words, like here." She pointed just as the on-screen Mark babbled a little then went quiet.

"I was tongue-tied," Mark admitted; it seemed he had suddenly gone serious. "I was so overwhelmed by… you."

Bridget smiled a small smile full of emotion, then leaned forward to take Mark in her arms, whispering something too quietly for Peter to hear.

…

"I'm glad you managed to untie your tongue," Bridget whispered, which to Mark was embarrassingly yet titillatingly suggestive; he was very glad she had not said it so Peter could hear. He simply turned his head and pecked a kiss on her cheek before she drew away.

"So Thailand was this year?" Peter asked; Mark saw he was at the row of discs again, thumbing through them until he held one up triumphantly. "Ah, Smooth Guide. This must be it."

As the segment began Mark felt himself tense up quite against his will; seeing it vividly churned to the surface his conflicted feelings of that time; still being desperately in love with Bridget, being equally angry for her leaving him without allowing him any chance to make amends, and angrier still for her apparent return to the backstabbing Daniel Cleaver, not to mention their aforementioned (and obvious) fantastic chemistry on screen. Seemingly sensing this mental maelstrom, Bridget slipped an arm under his then around him, between the sofa and his back, in order to squeeze him to her reassuringly, pressing her cheek into his chest. He considered that he might eventually be able to watch the segment without cringing if she were to reassure him this way every time.

"I almost hate to say this, but: that was a great bit," said Peter as it concluded, drawing Mark back to the present. "You're really a natural at it, Bridget, even when you can't speak a word of the language."

At this she laughed. "That, I'm afraid, has been and will always be a hopeless cause."

Mark was swept with a sudden and unsettling sensation that this hinted toward something for which he had not been present. Paris, all those years ago? Was his brother intentionally trying to be provocative? Mark ventured, "I do all the speaking when we're out at Le Pont de la Tour, else we might end up eating a boiled shoe."

"Ah yes, '_Mademoiselle voudrait un croissant au chocolat, s'il vous plaît_'," said Peter, then looked as if he regretted his words and might well have; after all, Peter had just ordered breakfast for a woman, and had probably done so for Bridget. He'd hardly needed another reminder.

"Oo, I recognise the word 'chocolate'," said Bridget. "Mm, chocolate croissant. I don't think I'd had one of those before I'd gone to Paris."

An image popped unbidden into Mark's head suddenly of Bridget pining for Peter with every chocolate croissant she'd eaten. He shook his head involuntarily; as he did he realised Peter had switched off the disc and was popping it out.

"Thanks, Mark," Peter said in an odd tone. "Good of you to share this." Peter looked to Mark, to Bridget, then to Mark again. "Well, I'm sure you'd like some time to yourself, so…"

"You can watch a film with us," said Bridget.

"No, I don't think I will, but thank you for asking." Peter smiled stiffly. "Besides, I was under the impression there was to be no telly in this house." The words and the sarcastic tone perplexed Mark. "Thanks for dinner too." With that he went back upstairs.

After a few silent moments, Bridget asked, "Was it something I said?"

"I haven't the faintest what that was all about," Mark said, though he suspected it was, for Peter, a mixture of guilt over bringing up his own shared past with Bridget and a misplaced reference to Mark's earlier joke about forbidding television-watching, a joke Bridget herself had very clearly gotten, garnering him a stuck-out tongue for his efforts.

"Bet he was just feeling like the third wheel," said Bridget, resting against Mark's shirt. He savoured the silence for a few before asking if she really did want to watch something on disc. "Mm, we don't have to," she said, snuggling against him more tightly. "I'm enjoying a state of nothingness."

This made him chuckle. He had to admit it was nice to hear nothing, see nothing, think of nothing but the pleasantness of Bridget resting against him, to feel her slow and steady breathing in synch with his own, her warmth infusing into him. Lazily he drew his fingertips across her back, over the light fabric of her blouse; this caused her to shiver and giggle lightly. "Giving me goose pimples," she said quietly, then sighed.

No more was said; he simply continued to run his fingers over her back, combing them through her hair. She drew her own fingers across his arm and chest, then looked up to stroke his face, over his sideburns, over the pulse in his throat. She leaned up and pressed her lips to his in a lingering chaste kiss; she did this several more times, as sweet and as patient as true love itself, as if she were shy and had not kissed a man before.

He found it utterly enthralling, completely wonderful and far more arousing than he would have ever expected.

They continued in this way for some time before she ventured any further and drew her tongue along his lip. He wanted to kiss her deeply, properly, but thought it best to let her continue her slow assault and to keep that urge at bay. What they were sharing now was far too precious, was worth every moment on its own… and the payoff at the end would be far more satisfying.

As his breath stuttered with her ministrations, she, to his utter puzzlement, stopped what she was doing and drew back from him. He opened her eyes to see she was rising to her feet, and held out her hand to him with a cherubic smile. He smiled too. It would not do to make love there on the sofa, not with his brother in the house.

He rose and took her hand; together they walked to the stairs and made their way up to the master bedroom. Slowly he undressed her, and she, him; quietly, reverently, they resumed the intimacy they had been sharing on the sofa, ultimately leading to a thoroughly satisfying culmination.

As he held her in his arms, considered her, the woman he treasured more than any other he'd known, his partner and future wife, his thoughts turned, oddly enough, to his brother's weird behaviour. He then considered that his brother had only ever known him as a very serious man with attachments that were anything but, and a man who was not overtly emotional or demonstrative; perhaps his brother believed the criticism was genuine. He hoped not. Most of all, he hoped Bridget did not see it that way, and that understood that his feelings for her ran deep. He thought she did. Surely she did. But in case she didn't….

Perhaps he ought to let her know in no uncertain terms.

…

She knew it was the endorphins talking; truly she did. But in that moment, Bridget thought there was no way she could be happier or more content than she was that night. She sighed, her exhalation long and sustained and completely indicative of her thoroughly pleased state. She raked her fingernails over the fine hair on his chest, which had no effect at all on his slow and steady breathing. She smiled to herself; he was probably already asleep—

He surprised her just as she was about to mentally accuse him of dozing off, turning her into his embrace and holding her close to him. "Darling," he said softly, nuzzling into her ear, "I hope you never think that a lack of outward affection in public means I love you any less than I do."

"I know," she said, and really she did, even if she wasn't sure what was prompting this now. It had taken her some time to really, truly understand, but she knew that his inability to wear his heart on his sleeve did not mean he didn't have one at all. He loved her; she did not doubt this, because there were so many other ways in which he demonstrated it.

He stroked the hair at her temple, then traced his fingers along her face. "Good," he murmured at last. "Good."

She might have to revise her opinion on endorphins. Surely they alone could not be wholly responsible for the happiness and security she felt now, feelings that, along with Mark's tender caresses, helped lull her into a peaceful, untroubled sleep, into dreams that carried her through to morning.

It was not the sunlight pouring in through the curtains nor the sound of the city as it came to life beyond the walls of the house that woke her, but rather, the nearby strong scent of coffee. She slowly opened her eyes to find Mark there, cup in hand, sitting beside her with a smile that hovered somewhere between sweet and amused.

"Morning."

"What time is it?" she asked.

"About ten."

She hadn't meant to sleep quite so long but she reasoned she must have needed it. She pushed herself to sitting, holding the sheet to her chest. She swore he clucked his tongue as he handed her the coffee. "Thanks." She took a grateful, almost greedy sip. "Oh, lovely. This'll wake me up."

"I could let you go on sleeping," he quipped, reaching for a second cup he'd set on the bedside table, his own.

"Not a chance." The day seemed bright, sunny, full of promise, and she wanted to spend it with Mark, even if it meant more wedding planning.

"I thought you might prefer to come down for breakfast," he said. "You, me, and perhaps some pancakes."

"Pancakes, hm?" she asked, then drew her brows together. "Where's your brother?"

"He's already up and out of the house," Mark explained. "He was gone before I even got up."

"Hm," she said. She thought about his slightly strange behaviour the previous evening, and asked, "He's not avoiding me, is he?"

"Of course not," said Mark. "He's been out at the crack of dawn almost all week." Mark leaned forward and kissed her. "So. About those pancakes."

If not for the fact that she felt lightheaded from hunger, she might have been tempted to put off pancakes indefinitely.


	6. Chapter 5

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>SummaryDisclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5.<strong>

Glancing to his watch again, Peter noted that only five minutes had passed since he'd last checked. It was very unlike Mark to be late. In fact, it was unlike him to be on time; he had always been early to the point of manic obsession.

As they'd sat down for dinner on Monday night, Peter had mentioned to Mark that he needed some drapes for the flat into which he was due to move, the sort of drapes that could render the place as pitch black as night for those times in rotation when he needed to sleep during the day. Mark had mentioned a shop where the decorator who had done up his house (_Must be mad, or as colour-blind as Bridget had suggested_, Peter had thought) had gotten some very high quality window dressing.

Bridget had overheard this conversation and suggested it might be fun for them to all go shopping. "Particularly," she'd said, "as I would like to have a look at some new drapes myself. Something a bit more… cheery."

'For when I move in after the wedding' was the part that had gone unspoken. Of course she'd want to bring her own tastes and preferences into the house with her when she came to live with Mark; he had no idea why the thought of it bugged Peter so much.

So they'd arranged to meet on Wednesday just outside the shop Mark suggested, one called Rideaux, a posh sort of place with the kind of entrance one might have missed if one was not aware it existed, at one in the afternoon. It was now twenty minutes past the hour, no Mark, no—

"Hi!"

Peter spun around at the sound of a familiar voice. He immediately locked in on her blonde hair (pinned up in a bouncing ponytail) and her blue eyes (blinking in the bright sun as she pulled her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head). "Hi Bridget," he said, and as he did he was struck with the sensation that something was not quite right. Then it occurred to him—"Where's Mark?"

"Couldn't make it, after all," she said. "Something about a recess earlier meant everything got wonky. That's okay though, right?"

"Of course it is," he said automatically. It was all right, but her expression seemed to need vehement reassurance. "We can still have fun."

As he spoke he hoped that his words were not misconstrued. Her smile suggested they had not. "Yes we certainly can. After all, you and I are the ones shopping, really."

Feeling a bit cheeky, he asked, "And he's okay with you choosing unsupervised for that museum of a house?"

She made a dismissive sound. "I'm not unsupervised," she said. "I'm with you."

She said something more about how he, as Mark's brother, surely knew something of Mark's taste, and surely would not have allowed her to purchase something too outlandish, but he could only, foolishly focus on the phrase 'I'm with you'.

They went directly into the store and immediately Peter felt acutely uncomfortable. The shop reminded him of a very concentrated version of the inside of Mark's house. It was densely packed with objects that were devoid of warmth and personality. Even the saleswoman who looked up could have been an android for the lack of expression on her face; she looked like something out of _Metropolis_ with the sleek brown suit and glossy helmet of dark hair.

"Oh my."

This was Bridget's response, quiet and slightly tremulous. He looked to her, saw that she looked like she might burst into giggles.

"Yes?" barked the robotic saleswoman, an edge of annoyance betraying her otherwise flat tone.

"I—" began Peter, but was interrupted by Bridget.

"Sorry," she said. "We were looking for cocktails. Obviously, wrong door."

They backed out of the place. Once the door shut, Bridget began laughing uncontrollably. "Well, now I can see that this was Natasha's recommendation," she said breathlessly. He had no idea who Natasha was, but suspected she was one of Mark's colleagues. "I hope you didn't mind that," she went on, "but you went all pale and horrified when we stepped in."

"Didn't mind at all," he said, feeling relieved. He began to chuckle too. "Looked like a dungeon in there."

"I strongly feel that if not for the fact that Mark's house has, you know, windows and sunlight…" she began, then laughed again. "Come on. Let's go to Debenhams. I went with my mum last week and they had some wonderful-looking stuff."

Peter raised a brow. Debenhams? He didn't really have anything against the place, personally speaking, but he wondered what Mark's reaction would be to her not only redecorating the house, but redecorating with things that did not come from the posh dungeon. "I'm game," he said. "As long as they have the curtains I need."

"Oh, I'm sure they do," she said. "Come on, let's find a taxi."

Seeing London through Bridget's eyes—travelling in the taxi, admiring the drapes and housewares in the shop—invariably led Peter to remember seeing some of the sights with Paris that day so long ago, and in so many ways she had not changed at all; he could see that now outside of Mark's influence.

It made him feel sad, perhaps even slightly desperate, as if he needed to do something to keep her from losing herself; this in turn made him feel guilty, because it was not if he thought poorly of Mark or thought his brother was a bad person.

Maybe just not the right person for her.

Debenhams turned out to have exactly what he wanted for the flat: lined curtains for the bedroom, in a pleasant jewel green with a grid of lighter green diamonds on them. He also sprung for a duvet plus a duvet cover, off-white in colour with the same dark green as an accent. Bridget took a little longer as she browsed; he was not sure if she would be purchasing before the wedding or after.

"What do you think of these?" she asked, admiring some drapes of a vivid cranberry shade, with stripes of ochre and emerald to break up the field of colour.

"I like them," he said. "They have very strong personality."

"They're not lined to block the sun," she mused, holding the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently to get a feel for the texture, "but then again, I might not wake up without a little sunlight—hell, Mark has to yank them open to get me to wake up anyway—and I'm not likely to have an evening shift." She looked at them a moment more, then seemed to come to a decision. She turned and smiled brightly. "Yes. I think I'll take them. And a few of those decorator pillows for the bed."

"Hope we can get a taxi with a large boot," commented Peter.

Before heading for home they agreed it would be a good idea to stop for a small snack. "I don't know about you," she said, "but shopping sucks the energy right out of me." They detoured to the café right there in Debenhams, sidling up to the counter and ordering coffees and cake; lemon with honey glaze for Peter, and chocolate for Bridget. As the plate was placed before her, he saw glee light up her eyes.

"Do you always pick chocolate?" he asked.

She clucked with her tongue. "Of course," she said. "Unless there's no chocolate option, in which case, I suffer through." With a wink, she took a corner from the cake, popped the fork in her mouth, and smiled as she ate it; it struck him how the simplest things really seemed to make her so happy.

With this, he forced his attention to his own coffee and cake, taking a sip and a bite respectively.

After a few moments and a few more bites, she asked him, "Can I ask a favour?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"If I come back to the house with you," she began, "will you help me hang these as a surprise for Mark?"

He agreed that he would, though privately wondered whether Mark would resent the notion of his home being invaded in such a way, that she might seem to want to change the house, and in effect, try to change him.

They finished their midday snack then, after an uneventful ride by taxi back to Holland Park, they brought their purchases directly upstairs. Peter stowed his new drapes and duvet in his temporary room while Bridget carried hers along to the master bedroom. He knocked on the door out of courtesy. She called for him to come in just as she was emptying items from a smaller bag, items he did not recall her buying at all.

One was a pair of boxers in the same precise shade of ruby red as the drapes. The other was a small pillow with a vaguely butterfly shape, in tones of deep blue. At what must have been a very confused look, she said, "Got this for his chair. He sits in his office chair and reads then complains about his back, and frankly, I don't want it getting any worse." It appeared though that there was something yet in the bag. When he asked about it, she turned as crimson as the drapes and folded the top over nervously. "It matches the boxers," she said. "It's… for me."

"Ah," said Peter, feeling his own skin blaze a little. "Well. Shall I get a stepladder or something, get these drapes up and in place?"

She nodded. "Okay."

Peter went to fetch the stepladder from the cupboard within the guest loo, taking the opportunity to distance himself from the thoughts of what resided within the carrier bag. However, the stepladder was not there. He scoured his memories for what could have happened to it. He took a brief tour through the rest of the rooms but could not find it. He returned with a smile and hoped it seemed sincere. "Can't find it. Guess… I'll just pull the chair over."

She looked dubious as she stared at the tall white chair with the absurdly large wings. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, yanking the chair nearer to the window. "If you want to get the drapes out I'll start taking these down, and you can hand me the new one so I can just swap one for the other."

"Very efficient of you," she teased. She then sat against the bed, reaching for the drapes to tear open the packaging. She was having a difficult time of it, but he resisted stepping down from the chair to assist. In fact, he turned his attention to the rod, and to detaching the drapes from the hangers; looking at her on the bed was turning his thoughts towards things best left not considered.

He had the third one undone when she spoke in a rather unsure tone: "Peter, this thing's huge." He turned to look to see she was practically wrapped, mummy-like, in the drapery. He couldn't help laughing aloud.

"Come here, let's just find the top edge and that'll make easy work of it." She waddled closer. "Turn around. Ah, there it is." He took hold of the corner and she turned around as it unwound.

As she did, she started to laugh. "This is ridiculous," she said.

"It is rather. Are you sure this is the right size?" He reached up with the corner to fasten the first one.

"Mm-hm," she advised. "I took the measurements myself."

He let the drape hang. The bottom rested in a puddle on the floor. Bridget looked utterly perplexed.

"'Measure twice, cut once'?" said Peter, unable to hold in a chuckle.

"Bollocks," she said. "What do you mean, cut?"

"Old saying," he said. "We won't be cutting. We may need to take these back, however."

"Can't we just… fold them under?"

"If they're too long, they're probably too wide," Peter said. He counted the loops, then counted the drapery hangers. "Yep. This is twice as wide as it needs to be."

She looked completely deflated.

"It's all right," said Peter. He removed the new drape from where it hung, then stepped down from the chair. "Get me the tape measure. I'll have a go at measuring, all right?"

She smiled crookedly. "All right."

…

As he sat at his desk, tidying up the business of the day far later into the evening than he would have liked, Mark was disappointed more than he thought he would be to miss accompanying Bridget on her shopping foray. He was glad, almost relieved, that she welcomed his suggestion that she spruce the place up with some colour and warmth, and almost regretted that he suggested she and Peter visit the shop to which Natasha had directed him many months ago. He had a deep fear, irrational as it was, that Bridget might have viewed his admittedly cold and impersonal house to be a true a reflection of who he was, and he did not want her to ever think he was so cold or impersonal at the heart of it.

He was very much looking forward to hearing about the trip, about what she might have found to inspire her for their life together. Her apartment was the embodiment of her warmth and spirit, and the thought of her transforming his home into _their_ home, a cosy, loving nest to which he could return after a long, difficult day and feel loved and welcomed, was something he very much looked forward to, something he had never really had the pleasure of having before. If it cost him a small fortune to make the house over in her image, it would be a small fortune well invested.

On his way to the car, Mark dialled Bridget's mobile. After a few rings she picked up with her usually perky hello.

"Darling," he said. "Just on my way. How was your day?"

"Oh, very good indeed. Peter found just what he wanted."

"And you?"

She remained playfully elusive: "You could say that."

He glanced at his watch, winced to see it was eight in the evening. "Hope you didn't wait on me for supper."

"Peter and I picked up takeaway, but haven't eaten yet. We're en route to the house now, almost there. Got some for you."

"Thank you, darling. I'll be home soon." He stopped to fish out his keys, and as he did, he added, "You know, I'm rather enjoying coming home to find you there."

He swore he could hear her smiling. "I like it too," she said. "But you must never tell Sharon or she'll accuse me of being a domestic throwback."

At this he laughed. "See you very soon."

It took him less time than expected to drive from Inns of Court to the house. He found them eating at the table, having placed the food on proper plates with silverware. As he came in he bent to kiss Bridget; she raised her chin in anticipation of the kiss. "Smells wonderful."

"I thought you might like Chinese," she said. "Though I'll be honest: I was dying for some prawns and rice."

Mark took his seat, laughing to himself at her frank admission. His plate was heaped with some of the same prawn and rice dish; she knew he always enjoyed it very much. They had also prepared some green tea, so he poured himself a little cup. Peter, he noticed, had a chicken dish with fried noodles.

"Good day, then?" Mark asked as he brought a forkful of his dinner up to his mouth.

"Quite," said Peter, though to Mark he sounded quite distracted. "Found exactly what I needed."

Mark nodded as he ate; he was so pleased that they were getting along, and that he could feel so at ease after so short a time with the two of them spending time alone. He then added, "So glad to hear." With that he took another bite, and as he did he realised precisely how famished he was; he proceeded to clear his plate, stopping only to sip on his wine, with barely two words strung together. When he finished, he looked up to his table mates to see Peter's expression somewhat indefinable—perhaps his dinner was not to his satisfaction, as he had pushed his plate away half-eaten—but Bridget was smirking in amusement.

Just then, the quiet of the dinner table was interrupted by the shrill of a mobile; Peter's, it turned out to be, as he reached into his trouser pocket for it. "Pardon me," he said, then rose to take the call. After a brief hushed conversation with his back to the table, he disconnected then turned to them. "That was a mate of mine from where I'll be working. Going to meet for a bit of socialising. Don't have to wait up." It was hard to tell if he was actually joking or just trying to sound like he was. He then waved a little then departed the room.

"Must not have been a very good dish," said Bridget with a slight pout.

"He was all right today?" asked Mark.

She nodded. "Which is why I think his noodles must have been off." She looked amused, then chuckled to herself. "He's off his noodle. Anyway, if you're done, I want to show you what I got today."

He looked down to his empty plate, then raised a brow in her direction. "I think I'm done, unless there's another, invisible course."

Playfully she stuck her tongue out at him as they rose from the table together.

"I didn't know you bought anything," he said, then mused to himself that at least he'd be prepared for the bill when it came in the mail.

"Yep," she said perkily. "I really hope you like them."

They scaled the stairs and went directly into the bedroom. His gaze was immediately caught by the splashes of colour, one on the bed in the form of three small pillows in burgundy, green and a golden tone, and another hanging from the windows, long drapes. He turned to her, realised at her expectant expression that he should say something. "Bridget, they're lovely."

"Really?" she asked. "You really think so?"

"I really do. It's amazing to me how such a small change can make such a huge difference." He then spotted a carrier bag on the bedside table. "What's in there?"

She grinned broadly. "Ah. That… is for you. And me."

"Oh?"

She tilted her head towards it. He took the hint and opened the bag. Inside was more of that cranberry colour. The first thing he brought up out of the bag was a pair of boxers, which made him chuckle. The second…

He pulled it up by its spaghetti straps and allowed the silky fabric to unfold. It was a lovely little nightie with lacy trim. "Oh, now this is a lovely addition to the bedroom," said Mark, a smirk on his lips as he held it out to her. "I insist on seeing it in the room."

She took it then went into the loo as he pulled the final item from the bag. It seemed to be some sort of pillow in a dark Oxford blue; it seemed to have some kind of straps on it, as if it were meant to be attached to something. He called to her, "Bridget? What's this pillow thing?"

"Oh, that's so we can have a nice time on our honeymoon," she called back playfully.

He was perplexed. Given the nightie and the boxers, was it meant to be some sort of marital aid? Did she think they needed one?

She laughed; he looked up to see her, and wondered exactly what his features had done to prompt her outburst. "It's to support your back when you're at your desk reading, so you don't accidentally throw it out completely just in time for us to be having fun as newlyweds."

He smiled as his eyes lovingly swept over her body, clad now in the nightie. "Very nice," he said, "and very thoughtful of you. Would hate to spoil our honeymoon."

She looked very smug. "It was very altruistic of me, I assure you," she said.

He looked at her, looked again at the room, and was struck again with how so small a change could bring such warmth and life. He strode forward to take her into his arms.

"Hold on, mister," she said, stepping back. "Your turn." She pointed to the boxers.

"Why?"

"Just for that you change right here and not in the loo."

Mark supposed he had that coming. As he unbuttoned his shirt, she took a seat on the edge of the bed, and her gaze was unwavering (and appreciative) as he doffed it, then his trousers and socks. He didn't know why he should feel shy as he shimmied out of the boxers he currently wore and dressed in the new ones she'd brought.

"Oh, very nice," she declared. "Indeed." She held out her hand, which he accepted only to tug her to her feet.

"If we're going to christen the new décor, let's do it right."

She smiled. "Not going to actually do it on the drapes."

"You know what I mean."

He then brought her to him, kissed her, ran his hands over her from skin to satin to skin again. She said no more, just moved with him to the edge of the bed, slid under the sheets and from there allowed actions to speak as loudly as possible. He knew with certainty, even more than before, that asking her to be his wife was absolutely the best, most right decision he had ever made; he never wanted to be without her.

Basking in the afterglow, he thought about their life beyond the wedding, her finally moving in with him, which brought him to thoughts of her further brightening up this house, so stark and white for far too long. "Maybe," he said lazily, "we can go on the weekend for something nice for the sitting room, or the kitchen."

"Mmm," she purred. "That would be nice."

"Unless the bill for those drapes and pillows means I owe that shop a kidney," he added playfully.

"Oh, I didn't mention," she said, pushing her over to face him. "That shop was scary, and we didn't even go in. We went to Debenhams instead. I bought it myself."

That the drapes came from Debenhams didn't bother Mark in the least. However, he felt it only right and proper that he spend the money on home décor. "You'll give me the bill," he said. "I don't want you spending your money on these things."

"Mark, don't be silly," she said dismissively. "It's my house too, or it will be, and I want to contribute in some way."

"You can contribute by choosing what you want."

She seemed shocked into silence. "For your information, Mark Darcy, this is not 1955," she said stonily, retreating from him. "You are not the head of any household, nor the sole breadwinner, nor lord and master over me."

"But there is no denying that my income—"

"Don't," she barked. "Do _not_ say it." She got to her feet.

"Don't be so wilfully obtuse," he said. "It will be _our_ income when we're married, Bridget, so what difference does it make if I insist on paying back for the drapes?"

"You are unbelievable!" she said, clearly furious. "And you call me obtuse? You're the one firmly clinging to some outmoded ideal of man-as-provider!"

"I most certainly am not 'obtuse'!" he shouted. "Perhaps it's a bit traditionalist for me to want to provide for you—"

"You don't have to provide me with—" she began heatedly.

"Stop bloody interrupting me, Bridget!" he exploded.

"You don't have to, and I don't want you to. Why can't you understand that?"

His temper was reaching a boiling point. "I am not saying I want you to stay home barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen! I have always respected your independence and you're being unfair in suggesting I'm not. Why must you be so bloody stubborn on this point? Just let me pay, for God's sake!"

She exhaled roughly, then said through clenched teeth. "I'm not going to go in circles about this with you. I'm going home. _Home_. To _my_ flat!"

Somehow, without his consciously noticing, she had gotten fully dressed and was now leaving.

"Bridget!" he called, then called again even more loudly, ordering: "Bridget, come back this instant!" She paid him no heed; he heard the front door slam shut. "Fuck!" he shouted in his frustration. How had something as trivial as this even escalated into a fight? He threw the sheets aside and began pacing around in his anger and frustration.

It wasn't normal, he thought, to be so resistant to the idea that a man should want to buy things for his fiancée, that his insisting on doing so was a sign (in her mind) that he thought she was inferior or incapable of taking care of herself, or some pet that needed coddling. Other women he knew had no problem accepting such things, and he did not feel they were less independent for doing so. He ran his hand over his hair and stalked around the room, tried to make sense of it and found that he could not.

It was then it struck him: it did not need to make sense in the context of other women because she was unlike other women, especially his ex-wife and Natasha, for whom expensive presents were not only expected but demanded; if not directly then passive-aggressively. When all was said and done, they'd really only wanted the money and everything that came with it. On the other hand, Bridget….

He sighed heavily. This was, in part, what had always set her apart from the rest, why he loved her as he did… and he had been a complete buffoon. Now she'd stormed out—he hoped she had found a taxi and not foolishly gone all the way home on foot—and though he'd considered going after her, he was too proud to do so, thought that they both needed a little time to recoup.

He resigned himself to deal with this in the morning before work; he knew she would not have left for work before he'd get there. But as he showered in preparation for bed, he realised he would not be able to sleep not knowing if she'd made it home okay, so he dried his hair quickly with a towel, dressed once more, grabbed his keys and headed for her place.

…

As Bridget locked her flat door behind her, slightly breathless from the walk back to her flat, she wanted to scream in frustration. She would have thought in all the time they'd been together that he would have understood she wanted a partnership of equals. If he was going to continue to behave like some sort of chauvinist for the entirety of their marriage, was getting married the right thing to do?

"Stop it, Bridget," she muttered. "One fight isn't a reason to call everything off." Even if she was still bloody angry with him.

A short time later, as she partook of a calming Silk Cut, she heard a key turn in the door, to her surprise and dismay. It could only be one person, and it infuriated her that he would follow her. She stubbed the cigarette out of habit.

"Mark," she called. "Go home. I want to be alone right now."

He came into the flat. "You _walked_ home?" he said, clearly upset. "And smoking," he added darkly.

"Couldn't use my jetpack," she said. "It needs refuelling. Was so depressed I needed a fag."

"Stop being facetious," he barked. "You're constantly putting your health and safety at risk—"

"Enough!" she said, exasperated. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound, shouting at me like I'm some helpless child and assuming everything I do is to annoy you? Go home, Mark. We both have to work in the morning, I'm tired, and I'd rather talk when we're both a bit more rational."

"I'm quite rational now."

"Go," she seethed; how dare he imply she was not?

His gaze was unblinking, but he relented. "Good night, then." Without another word he turned and left the flat.

She threw herself down onto her sofa and in her irritation she screamed into a pillow. Men!

…

The entire night was a failure. Peter might as well have not bothered going to the pub to meet his friend, who only wanted to introduce him to some girl. _Well, no, that isn't entirely true_, he thought. Jim had asked him to come out for a pint, and Peter had arrived to find not only Jim but a pretty brunette called Margaret. He would apparently be working with her as well, more peripherally than he'd be working with Jim, and she certainly seemed interested in Peter… and perhaps under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed feeling a bit set up.

His thoughts had been and still were too focused on dinner that evening, the relative silence from his brother despite Bridget's attempt to engage… he had felt distinctly uncomfortable, and was grateful, at least, for being called away out of the awkwardness.

Despite this, he was glad to be going back to the house. He let himself in and went directly upstairs, his footfalls slowing as he realised he was hearing raised voices.

They were fighting. He couldn't hear precisely about what they fought, but it seemed all too evident to Peter: Mark had not liked Bridget's choices in home décor. Silently he went into his room, closing the door against the sound; he wondered if they'd been fighting the entire time he'd been gone. He hated to think they had been.

The more he considered it, the more the idea of their marrying revolted him. He likened it in his mind to the spirit of a wild and beautiful creature being put into shackles; before too long its spirit would be broken, and the thought of this happening to Bridget saddened and angered him, especially when he'd seen her so alive and happy in his own company.

Peter then heard her voice closer to his door, raised and shouting about how she was going to go home to her own flat. _Good_, he thought; _Maybe the wedding will be called off. _As he thought it, he felt a momentarily twinge of guilt, but didn't know why he should. The more he'd seen, the more Peter had become convinced that Mark did not love her, not truly, not in the way she deserved. If Mark had, he would have followed her out and straightened everything out at all costs, but he hadn't.

Peter went to the guest bath to wash up for the evening, then returned to his room. As he crossed the hallway he could hear a rush of water coming from inside the master suite. Mark was showering; Peter couldn't help wondering why, then realised he was being too suspicious. Mark was probably just getting ready for bed. After all, he had work in the morning.

He slipped into the bed, resting first on one side then the other. After some minutes of this, it became clear he could not get comfortable, not physically and certainly not mentally. As he turned again, he heard the distinct sound of a door slamming—Mark's bedroom door—then the heavy, rapid footsteps as Mark rushed downstairs and out the front door.

Mark going out so late in the evening? Peter thought briefly of the mysterious ladies' underpants and his heart broke. Although Mark had never truly loved his ex-wife, he had never been one for a casual fling nor for infidelity; Peter never would have thought his brother capable of such a thing, but in the intervening years it was possible things had drastically changed, that Mark had been so calloused by his experience with his ex that he had no problem cheating on his fiancée.

Peter could not sleep no matter how hard he tried; he could only think of the untroubled, free-spirited young woman from Paris, one with her whole life in front of her, and he became even more depressed. This was not the future he would have wanted for Bridget. It was not one he wanted for her now.

In that moment it seemed undeniable to him, a truth he had been fighting, but it was no use in pushing it aside anymore. He wanted her for himself. This was very clear to him now. The two of them were so alike, so compatible, had so much more in common than she and his brother ever would.

It was still pre-dawn when he decided fighting for sleep any longer was pointless, and he rose, dressed, had breakfast. He still did not know quite what to do about the situation when Mark came down for some coffee. He looked terrible, like he had come in very late indeed.

"Good morning," said Peter.

"Nothing particularly good about it," he said, pinching the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"Have some coffee." Mark thanked him quietly. "Sleep poorly?" asked Peter, then ventured, "Was colour in the bedroom too much to bear?"

Mark glared in his direction. "I do _not_ want to talk about it."

Peter decided to push further. "Everything all right with Bridget?"

"Yes," he said brusquely, glaring again. It was typical Mark behaviour, shutting down the conversation when it no longer suited him to continue.

In that moment Peter knew exactly what he needed to do: he needed to see Bridget as soon as possible and plead his case. Mark would, in all likelihood, go about his day as if nothing had happened; it was the perfect chance for Peter to act. He rose from the table. "Have to go," he said. Mark only made a non-committal sound in response.

As he made his way to Bridget's flat he felt increasingly guilty for the betrayal he was about to effect, but if she had been having second thoughts, his confession may well help her to make up her mind to call off the wedding and break it off with Mark. Even if she didn't want to jump into anything with Peter right away, that would be all right. He could be patient. As for Mark, well, he wouldn't be the least bit broken-hearted; he'd probably just ask his mistress to take her place.

He at least had the journey to her flat by foot to contemplate his words to her.


	7. Chapter 6

**The Two Darcys**

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)  
><span>Rating<span>: M / R  
><span>SummaryDisclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

Humour me re: 'drapes', okay? :)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6.<strong>

It was going to take a lot of coffee to get herself moving today.

Bridget had finally gotten to sleep in the wee hours and now that she had to get up for work, she felt like utter arse, both physically and mentally. She stood in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, staring at it as if it were a scrying mirror of old, like it might answer her questions if she just meditated in front of it long enough. Had she overreacted last night? Why would she assume such awful motives of the man she loved most in the world? Of course he wanted to treat her to nice things as a token of his affection. Of course he didn't look down on her in some outmoded, paternalistic way. She felt terrible and had half a mind to ring him up straightaway to apologise.

She became aware of a knocking at her flat door, which both excited and perplexed her. Who else would it be but Mark at this time of the morning? However, since he had a key of his own, why would he knock? After a split-second of thought she decided perhaps he had been in such a hurry to leave the house that he had forgotten it—or perhaps he thought he wasn't welcome after the fight—so she ran to throw open the door.

"Oh!" she said, immediately regretting answering the door in her short, silly, bright pink cartoon-kitty-patterned nightshirt, and in reflex covered herself modestly. It was not Mark at all. It was his brother.

"Bridget," he said. His voice was rough and a little shaky; she became immediately concerned. "Sorry to interrupt you. May I come in?"

"Sure, of course, come on up." She retreated up the stairs, grabbed a wrap that had been left on the stair railing there, and put it around her shoulders, as much to cover her embarrassment as the chill she suddenly felt. "What is it?"

He just stood there in silence, gazing at her in a manner that was eerily like Mark's, for what felt like far too long. At last he explained himself. "I really did not want to have to come to you like this, but I feel it necessary."

She felt panic well in her chest. "What?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

Thoughts flew by at the speed of light: Mark did something stupid and drank himself into unconsciousness; Mark hurt himself in the bathroom or in a car accident taking a drive to clear his head; Mark was in hospital on life support. "Well, tell me already!" she said with some insistence.

"I can't allow things to go forward without speaking up, Bridget," he said, then strode forward. "What I've seen this past week or so… you must know, Bridget, that Mark isn't right for you."

Her incredulity was immeasurable, and certainly visible. Peter went on.

"In fact," he said, "I'm convinced that he is the last man who is. He has proven time and again that he is not looking for love, a soul-bond, but a companion, preferably one he can order around, and he does, Bridget; he orders you around, talks to you like a child, stifles your very nature. You deserve better."

She felt as if she had been physically struck. "Peter, on what basis—"

He interrupted. "I've seen enough, Bridget. Heard enough. And I know Mark." He paced a little, then turned to her again. "You deserve a man who's more of a kindred spirit, Bridget."

It dawned on her just then exactly where this conversation was heading; rather, careering, as if off the edge of a tall cliff. "Peter. I think you should leave."

"Someone like me, Bridget," he said. "You can't say you don't feel it too."

"Peter, I—"

_Don't_ was the unspoken word, but in the flash of an eye he was to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her; the wrap fell to the floor. For a fraction of a second she was transported back to that time in Paris, to those days they'd had together, but only for that fraction; she came to her senses and pushed him away, too shocked to speak.

She slapped him forcefully across the face, opened her mouth to tell him off—

"Peter!"

It was not Peter's own voice, nor was it hers barking out his name; at the top of the stairs, imposing in form, was Mark, and he looked not just angry but shocked.

…

From the moment Mark had left Bridget's flat after she'd commanded him to go, he knew everything about their conversation had not gone remotely the way he'd wanted it to go. He knew he had overreacted in discovering she had indeed walked home, and on top of that was smoking when she'd promised she had quit. _Should have waited until we'd made up to take her to task_, he thought, spirits in a dark humour; _She would have taken it much better as pillow talk._

Even still, it wouldn't have been anything serious, just a reminder that he worried about her. Rationally he knew she was an adult and that she could take care of herself, but after Thailand, he had begun feeling especially protective. He should not have taken it out on her the way he had.

As he drove, he came to a decision. He would not allow this dark cloud to linger any longer than it had to.

Upon his arrival home he immediately went to his office and phoned Rebecca to clear his schedule of all appointments for the next morning. He was going to return first thing to her flat to make it up to her, before she even had to go to work.

Having set a plan, however, did not make it any easier for him to get to sleep that night. It was fitful at best and he rose before his alarm went off. To his surprise he found Peter in the kitchen, and that coffee had already been made.

Peter could sense Mark's dark mood—hell, it preceded him like the aforementioned cloud—and wanted to talk, but the only person with whom Mark wanted to discuss his fiancée was his fiancée.

Shortly after Peter's abrupt departure—he supposed he had been a little too sharp with Peter as well, and sighed—Mark ate a quick breakfast despite not feeling particularly hungry, then went to shave and dress before he headed for the car and for Bridget's place.

As he parked his vehicle, he noticed a man walking briskly up the street in front of him. He would have sworn it was his brother—same hair, same build and height, same gait—but dismissed it as the distance between himself and the man, and his mind playing tricks; after all, he had just been thinking of his brother.

Mark rose then started towards Bridget's building, and as he did he realised Peter's doppelgänger was also walking towards it; he also realised as the man slipped in through the open door of the building, as Mark got a good look at the man in profile, that this was no doppelgänger. It _was_ Peter.

Curious, Mark proceeded forward and towards the building too; he scaled the stairs, and in approaching the top flat, could hear voices, Bridget's, but mostly Peter's. The words themselves were not clear, but the tone was impassioned. The flat door was open so Mark went inside and up the stairs… just in time to see Peter had Bridget in his arms and was kissing her.

For a long, torturous moment, he was astonished and hurt; his mind whirled with thoughts, irrational as they might be, that Bridget and Peter had actually resumed their affair from so long ago. A horrid déjà vu gripped his heart, only a thousand times worse at the thought that the woman he loved like no other had betrayed him with his own brother. However, it became immediately apparent that Bridget was not a willing participant. Mark was about to lunge forward and pull his brother off by force when Bridget saved him the trouble of doing so, delivering a hard crack against his cheek.

That's when Mark loudly announced his presence.

That was also when he found himself with the front of Peter's shirt balled into his fist. He yanked Peter away from her, then released him long enough to cock his arm back and deliver a stiff punch to his jaw.

"Mark!" Bridget cried, though her voice sounded remote and tinny to his ears. Peter staggered back, hand reflexively coming up to his face, then fell backwards onto the ground as he tripped over Bridget's trainers.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" Mark demanded of his brother in a thundering voice.

"Mark, it was all so sudden, I swear…."

Despite his anger he reached for Bridget and put his arm around her shoulders, kissing her on the temple. "I know," he said tenderly, then turned with ferocity back to Peter, who was getting to his feet, still rubbing his tender face. "You haven't answered me."

"I could no longer sit back," Peter said, "and allow this go on when you don't love her, you treat her like a child, and you lie to her."

"What?"

Both Mark and Bridget spoke the same word together.

"Don't love her?" bellowed Mark. "Are you out of your mind?"

"How has Mark lied?"

Mark watched Peter's steely gaze meet his own. "You asked me not to tell her, Mark, remember?"

"Tell her? Tell her what?"

"About the pants I found," Peter said. "Silky, zebra striped…"

Realisation struck Mark just then about what Peter meant—the stray pants, the ones Peter had found, and that out of respect for Bridget, Mark had asked him not to say anything to her. The point Peter was trying to make, however, did not sink in until he added:

"You've been lying to her about another woman, Mark."

Bridget, oddly enough, began to laugh, even as she looked incredulous. "Peter, are you saying that my own pants are… evidence that Mark's been cheating on me?"

"Yours?"

"You think I asked you not to say anything because you thought they were another woman's? How little do you think of me?" he said. "I asked you not to say anything because she'd be embarrassed to know they were in kitchen, and that _you_ were the one to find them."

"Oh my God," said Bridget.

"I—" Peter had the good grace to look surprised. "What about the… fight that night, you came in, found her watching the telly with me and summarily dismissed her—"

"Oh," said Bridget. "The misunderstanding, the night you'd made supper at the flat, Mark, and I'd come here instead." She turned to Peter. "You didn't hear me come back?"

"We'd patched everything up that night," confirmed Mark.

Peter seemed on thinner and thinner ice. "But the telly, the grand proclamation that she wasn't to watch any when she was over? What of that? Adults don't order one another around like that."

"What?" Mark asked in disbelief. "Did you think that was serious?"

"Did you not see me stick my tongue out at him?" said Bridget. "He can be a bit bossy, and scolding—" He turned to look at her, to find she was already looking at him. "—but it's just a thing he does, a sign of affection, and I know he never means to hurt me or make me feel small, not really." She offered a small smile and he knew she was referring to the previous night's fight.

"Really?" Mark asked.

She nodded. "I was being stupid. I know why you really wanted to pay for the drapes, and it's okay—I'll accept it in the spirit in which it's offered."

"Pay for the drapes?"

He had momentarily forgotten about Peter. "Yes," said Mark. "We fought last night because she wouldn't accept money for the drapes, when I had every intention of paying from the start."

"Seems only right," said Peter. "So you didn't dislike them."

"I liked them very much indeed."

"I came back, heard you fighting…" He trailed off. "You were so sullen during supper, didn't say a word—"

"I was _hungry_," said Mark. "Nothing more. If anything, you were the sullen one. What is this really about? Do you have a catalogue of grievances to convince yourself that she was more right for you than for me? So far I've been accused of infidelity, of insensitivity, of being a bully, of… shouting at her over the colour of some drapes. Anything more you'd like to add to the list?"

Peter said nothing, only looked down.

"Peter," said Mark firmly. "I don't know if you saw only what you wanted to see, or chose to misinterpret every word and action in the worst possible light. I can only say that you are wrong. I love Bridget, I have every intention of marrying her, and if you cannot accept it then you can't be a part of our lives." Mark glanced to Bridget. "I would hope very much that I speak for Bridget, too."

She nodded, then said, "I love Mark more than I can ever say, and I'm sorry if anything I've said or done—make that, _we've_ said or done—has led you to believe I was just hanging on for the sake of hanging on."

"You seemed so restrained whenever you were with him," Peter said quietly. "I hated to think of you stifled."

"Stifled? Me?" asked Bridget.

"Not by a long shot," said Mark.

"We had one day of shopping fun," she said. "Yes, I let myself get a bit silly. But I'm not tamping down some free-spirited urge whenever I'm with Mark. I've grown up, Peter, and this is just who I am now."

Mark felt himself smirking despite this intractable situation; he didn't think of her as especially staid and stoic, evidenced by her playful nightshirt.

"I saw that, Mark Darcy," she added with mock sternness, causing Mark to chuckle. She then strode forward and reached for Peter's hand. "I think you miss Chloë, and I think you're thinking back and romanticising a bit about Paris."

"And maybe a bit about what might have been," said Mark.

"Maybe," said Peter.

After giving it a squeeze, Bridget let go of Peter's hand then went to Mark, slipping her arm around his waist.

"I'm sorry for the, er, you know," said Mark, gesturing towards his own jaw. "Punching."

"I'm not," said Bridget. "I mean for the slap. What you did was rude."

"Bridget," whispered Mark.

"No, no, I had it coming," Peter said. "From both of you. I don't know how either of you can stand to look at me. How you'll either of you forgive me."

"Misunderstanding," said Mark. "That's all it was. I am fully prepared to forgive and forget if Bridget can, and I think I know her well enough to say she would."

Peter reluctantly looked to Bridget. "I'm so sorry for that," he said. "For so terribly misjudging your relationship with my brother."

"And you'll not pull this sort of thing again?" she asked, a playfulness edging her serious question. Mark was no less convinced that she'd forgive him.

"Of course not. I see now all of the reasons why this happened. What you said made perfect sense."

"Good," she said. "Because I'd hate to regret forgiving you." She grinned at this, then stepped forward to offer a hug to seal the deal. He accepted it and the look of gratitude on his features was reassuring to Mark. She then drew back. "Weird morning," said Bridget. "Very weird morning."

"Indeed," said Mark.

"And in case it wasn't clear…" Bridget took Mark into her arms.

"I'm sorry about last night," Mark said quietly.

"Mm," she sighed. "I'm sorry too."

When they pulled apart, Mark realised Peter was hovering awkwardly near him. Thinking perhaps he wanted to shake on it, Mark held out his own hand. Peter, however, surprised his brother with a hug. "I never wanted to hurt you," Peter said. "I shouldn't have, because I know you can be inscrutable, but I truly believed you did not care." He pulled away; after a pause, Peter added, "I can never undo what I did but know I'm utterly repentant."

The anger and confusion Mark had felt upon coming in upon that scene had completely evaporated. "I think you can consider yourself forgiven. Now," said Mark, changing his tone to one a bit more authoritarian, "as this is all sorted, you should go get dressed, Bridget, or you'll be later than usual to work."

She raised a brow, then laughed. "Do you see what I mean, Peter?" she asked.

At this, Peter chuckled. "He has a point though."

"Oh, you think I can go to work after that? I would much rather not."

"Bridget," he said. "I'll drive you."

She sighed. "Fine."

"I'll head out," said Peter. "I've got things to do, preparing to work and move. I'll see you this evening, then?"

Mark turned to his brother, clapping him on the shoulder again in a reassuring way. "We'll see you later."

Peter nodded. "Until then." He then walked towards the door.

Bridget called after him: "Are you going to be okay? I mean, really?"

Peter turned and smiled. "I'll be all right," he said. "Have a good day working."

After the flat door closed behind him, Mark turned back to Bridget. For all of the things whirling around his mind, he could think of nothing to say, and he stood there in a sort of stupid silence. Did he really give off such a strong impression of not caring about Bridget? Did others feel the same as his own brother?

Bridget was the one to break the silence.

"Come on," she said with a smile. "You can help dress me." She then winked, which lifted his spirits immensely.

They walked into her bedroom; as she began sorting through her closet, Mark came up to her side and asked with some hesitation, "You can tell, can't you, that I love you?"

"Don't be daft, Mark. Of course I can. We may go off into the occasional wobbly like last night, but… of course I know you love me."

He pressed on: "Do you think others—"

"Stop it right now," interrupted Bridget. "_I_ know you love me. That's all that truly matters."

"But I would hate to think that—"

"Anyone who knows you," she said, "knows you are not outwardly emotional. Anyone else can sod off." She turned to him, her features softening. "Now are you going to help me pick out something to wear, or do I have to resort to other means to get you to shut up?"

"Now that is not fair, offering me a choice like that."

She laughed. "I really don't want to go to work."

Mark considered that he had already cleared his morning of appointments. He also considered that they really ought to make up properly. But he also could not in good conscience keep her from work. It would not do at all. "Come now. You were very excited about directing a segment when you told me about it on Monday."

"Oh!" she said. "I totally forgot!"

He continued: "You can wear this skirt—" He picked out a black skirt that went to just above her knees. "—with this blouse. It always looks lovely on you." He chose a white silk top with a bit of a ruffled collar. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a party pooper," she said, "but I suppose you do have a point."

"And your smalls," he said. "Let me see. This one's nice." He held up a pale rose coloured lacy bra. He swore she blushed. "Have you pants to match? Where are they?"

"Probably in the bin."

"No, no, here they are. Come now, let's take off this silly kitty nightie. Where on earth did you find this, anyway? In the girls' section?" He reached to pull the nightshirt up but she playfully slapped away his hand.

"Do not mock my nightwear," she scolded, but then allowed him to pull it up and over her head. He couldn't say that the sight of her bare body didn't have an effect on him, but there was a time and place, and it wasn't now.

He dressed her with a loving touch, which she seemed to relish, though her lamentation that she really wished they could play hooky all day was distracting. "We have the weekend," he said, slipping the blouse over her shoulders, then tending to each button. "On with the skirt." He held it open for her and she stepped into it; he brought it all the way up then did the button and the zip at her back.

"A gal could really get used to this," she said.

"Well, you know, I'm always happy to oblige if you get up when I first wake you," he teased, then leaned and gave her a sweet kiss. "There you are then. Off you go."

"Have to put on some makeup," she said.

"Oh, I thought you had done."

"You are lovely," she said with a beaming smile.

He went with her to the loo and lingered at the door as she put on some cream then powder. "I'd offer to do that too," he said, watching her put on a little liner along the base of her upper eyelashes, "but I'm pretty sure you don't want to look like a clown."

She giggled. "Don't make me laugh whilst I'm trying to do this. I don't want to look like Barbara Cartland."

He grinned. "Really, I'm not sure why you bother with it at all," he said.

She finished the second eye then looked at him. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she said.

Bridget finished up with some shadow, mascara and a little blusher. She pulled a brush through her hair, and after gathering together her things, they were off. The drive was uneventful and spent in relative silence. Her hand on his as it rested on the gearshift was sufficient.

"I'll see you after work?"

"I'll pick you up," he said. "We can have supper."

"All right." She smiled again, then leaned to kiss him. "Until then."

The rest of his day went about as well as it could, in part improved by his good mood. All too soon it seemed he was back in front of her building, ringing her mobile.

…

Mark's call took Bridget a little by surprise. Truth be told, she had been somewhat unfocused due to the events of the morning. She had never guessed that Peter had still been harbouring feelings for her, or that he had propped up those feelings with fallacies. She also sincerely hoped that once those misapprehensions had been rectified that he had come around (would continue to come around) and realise it had all been an illusion. Add to that the fact that she had been pulled from the promised directorial stint…

"I'll be right down," she said to Mark. "Just need a moment to gather my things up."

"You sound distracted. Everything all right?"

"Tell you when I get down there."

When she got to the street Mark was at the passenger door ready to open it for her. She smiled. "You are a sight for sore eyes," she said, kissing his cheek.

"You only saw me this morning."

She pursed her lips.

"I mean," he said smoothly, "I'm glad to see you, too."

This made her laugh. "Come on. I'm hungry."

The drive back to his house—_Soon to be our house_, she thought excitedly—was blessedly and surprisingly quick. She wondered what they might do for supper (sooner rather than later), was sure Mark was wondering too; he suggested pasta which would be relatively quick, and she thought it seemed like a fine idea.

Those plans changed when they opened the front door.

"What on earth—" Mark began. She was puzzled too. The whole house was permeated by the scent of roasting meat—a beef roast, if she could trust her nose—with the accompanying smell of new potatoes.

"Mark?" they heard. "Is that you?"

"Peter?" called Bridget; even as she did so she knew it was ridiculous. Who else would it be?

"Come on down."

Bridget shot a glance to Mark, who looked equally perplexed. "Given the evidence at hand," said Mark, "I think he's cooked."

She grinned. "That's sweet."

They set down their respective bags, then made their way downstairs. The scent of dinner made Bridget's mouth water. Peter, despite everything that had happened this morning, looked bright and cheerful. "Hey."

"What's all this then?" asked Mark, grinning.

"My humble offering to try to make up for this morning."

"You're already forgiven."

"I know," he said. "I wanted to do this. Silly that I've been here for almost a fortnight and I hadn't yet. And—it's just about ready."

Peter had set the table, put out a bottle of red, from which Mark poured himself and his brother a glass. "Red, Bridget, or your usual white?"

"Red, I think. Thanks."

They sat down only to be served an excellent salt-and-peppered beef roast, baked new potatoes and asparagus on the side. Bridget felt she'd died and gone to gastronomic heaven, and expressed as much to him.

"Thank you," Peter said modestly. He raised his wineglass. "To my brother and future sister-in-law. Good people, great hearts, generous souls."

Bridget felt very emotional, and raised her glass with one hand as she took Mark's hand with the other. She cleared her throat, offered a smile. "Cheers."

…

_I'll be all right._

This was what Peter had said before leaving Bridget's flat, even as his head was whirling, even though he had no idea if he would actually be all right. He knew logically that he had been dead wrong about his brother's relationship; that did not, however, mean he could just turn off how he felt about Bridget. That part would take some time. He hoped he could be patient with himself.

One thing he could do, he realised, was try to heal over the rift. Experience told him that one of the best ways to do so was over a good meal. He began planning at once. He wasn't due to start working for another few days, so his time was his own and he was able to get everything together in time to get it cooking.

The expressions on Mark's and Bridget's faces when they returned to the house that evening was something he would not soon forget. It told him that he had done the right thing. It also told him that it really would be all right. Not immediately, but eventually. He accepted that.

The dinner itself was a resounding success, and in more than one respect. His brother and Bridget seemed to enjoy the meal, and after the enlightening resolution to that morning's confrontation, Peter could see their interactions for exactly what they were; he felt a fool for ever interpreting them any other way. Mark was in love, and every action he took, every word he spoke, expressed it in a way that was typical Mark. To the unschooled observer, Mark's care did seem to take the form of stern overprotectiveness, but always his words were said or his actions done from a place of a sense of deep concern and tender love. Bridget had known the correct interpretation, even if Peter had not, but he did now.

It was not to say that all feelings he had about Bridget had vanished; as much as he would have wished it, they had not. He knew now though that those feelings had been cultivated under false pretences. He would always be fond of her, would love her and welcome her as a member of the family, and over time that would be all he felt.

"You're going to have to roll me out of here on a cart," warned Bridget as she leaned back at the end of the meal, patting her stomach. "Oh, that was wonderful."

"You might have mentioned that once or twice," Peter said with a chuckle. "Thank you, again."

"I think this calls for a bit of reclining," suggested Mark. "Something on the telly you might want to digest to?"

She chuckled. "So long as it's not a nature programme about beached whales."

At this both men laughed. "We can worry about tidying up the kitchen later."

Bridget took the centre of the sofa; Mark, the end, and as if practised habit she leaned into him just as his arm came around her shoulders. She had control of the remote, and immediately took to flipping through the channels.

"There's that cooking show you like, darling," said Mark.

"Oh very funny," she said, turning to look up at him, then flipped away quickly. "Like I want to watch that now, when I'm ready to burst. It's almost like you like torturing me."

"What's the big objection to watching it, ordinarily?" asked Peter.

"She then wants to try the recipes," explained Mark, "without the benefit of the recipes."

"And…?"

"Let's just say," Mark said tentatively, "Bridget _needs_ the recipe. And even then—"

He stopped when Bridget turned and jabbed him in the ribs. At this Peter couldn't help laughing.

"Two words, darling," said Mark; he was laughing too. "Blue. Soup."

"You…" she said in an attempt to be threatening, but started to chuckle too. Peter was perplexed. "God, that was disastrous."

"Ultimately very rewarding," he said, holding her close.

"Except for the fight."

"Well, yes," said Mark. "But I'm willing to forget that bit of it."

"Yes. But I'll grant you that the rest of the dinner was nice," Bridget went on. "Your omelette was amazing. Clearly, innate cooking ability is a Darcy family trait."

Peter chuckled. "I'll take that again as a compliment. Surely, though, there are some things you can cook, Bridget."

"I'm very good with boil in bag meals," she said with a wink, continuing all the while to flick through the glut of available channels until at last landing on an old film. "Oh, I love this one. Do you two mind?"

"Not at all."

It was _An Affair to Remember_. He might have felt very awkward for her to have landed on it even as recently as that morning, but in truth, now he did not. _Okay_, he thought, _maybe a bit_, but not so much he felt like he had to leave. He did see Mark cast a glance in his direction; Peter only smiled then turned his attention back to the telly.

The film engaged his attention, but his gaze occasionally wandered to the pair of them on the sofa. Everything he saw struck him as comfortable and right. Again he wondered how he could have ever seen it any other way.

When it was over, Bridget got to her feet, stretched and yawned. "Why don't I take you back to your flat?" Mark asked.

"That isn't necessary," said Peter. "I mean, if you'd rather she stay here…" He grinned. "It is, after all, your house."

Mark smiled, though still seemed unsure. "I don't want to make you…" he glanced to Bridget, then back to Peter again. He didn't have to say the unspoken word: uncomfortable.

"I'll be fine. Go on. I've got some things to do before I turn in."

Bridget smiled tenderly. "Goodnight, Peter. Thanks again for the dinner."

"It was truly my pleasure."

He watched the two of them ascend to the main floor. After they were gone, he reached for the remote and switched the television off. The silence was a bit jarring yet welcome. He turned to gaze out of the window, at the darkened sky.

_No point in waiting for a sign_, he said. _No time like the present._

He dug into his pocket and retrieved not only his mobile, but a scrap of paper on which was written, in a delicate looping hand, a telephone number. He punched the number in, then cleared his throat and waited. After three rings, the line picked up; a female voice asked, "Hello?"

"Hello, Margaret?"

Silence, then a very tentative, "Yes, who's this?"

"It's Peter Darcy," he said. "We met last night."

More silence; when she spoke again, however, her tone was completely changed, much brighter, much more inviting. "Oh, Peter! I'm so glad you called."

_The end._


End file.
